I think I read a book like this once, but I couldn't follow it, as it had no plot, intent on changing the world of literature, I swore to only write p

This important message is brought to you by a pressing need to get that damn dancing baby off the front page of this esteemed rag of a blog.

Now that the important bit is out of the way, let us move on to the commercials:

"Now with bits of glass inside, Pepsi Blue is really not much worse than before! Aquire at your own peril!"

Thus spake the sage, and as it was written, so it was done, with a feather pen and splotches of ink everywhere, which some interpreted as genitalia, and others

as fighter jets engaged in intense aerial combat with giant mutant butterflies.

"All this and more, for the low, low, price, of one small child and a platinum ring! Offer expires frequently, and no attempt to prove otherwise has proved successful up to this point."

So said the lowly copy writer, the filthy chappy with the broken spellchecker and several gallons of yogurt.

"No amount of whining and complaining can stop this product from achieving it's ultimate goal, and careful cajoling may change the outcome of past events! And it's improved somewhat from our original design which was pure crap as you well know!"

So the passing flamingo on rollerskates. Flamingos are elegant creatures, statuesque and unassuming, they reveal the inherent absurdity we refuse to admit are the building blocks of the universe. Oh, the platypus is ridiculous, but we excuse it as an insect, the hippopotamus is a silly conglomeration of Greek words, which is nothing like the seahorse. But the noble flamingo! God's own bubblegum flavored chuckle!

"Fire randomly into the crowd, let none escape untouched by our new and improved flavor!"

Shouted the Bourgeoisie buffoon to his squadron of naval engineers, pretzel fanciers and domino players, each armed to the teeth with flavorful cannon of pure chocolate and ivory.

And so ended another busy day of working diligently at the Strugg and Blackham Mostly Edible Shoeshine factory.

Magnus Opus via Cocktaila Napkina

I know the vast numbers of spam artists and hamburger architects which frequent competing blogs and fill the gaping void in their life with pictures of cats and animated GIF images of dancing babies don't actually read this blog for any other purpose than to determine my status as a 'mark', 'dupe', 'sucker', or 'escaped mental patient', but I strive for excellence, nonetheless.

First and foremost, disaster struck recently when the internet went down for what seemed like months, there was a great wailing and gnashing of teeth, books were burnt, and small furry animals where hunted with a pencils and rubber bands, before it switched back on seconds later.

Two employees of the 'Corporation which shall not be named' attempted an escape yesterday and had copious amounts of hallucinogenic drugs reintroduced to their systems before they could return to work on their dissertation on Orpheus and his fabled adventure, which we hereby publish without reimbursement:

"Orpheus was just this guy, you know?"

In light of the perceived brevity of this product, we hired an incompetent team of robots to scour the web in search of a slightly more detailed article, but they went on a killing spree and we were subsequently forced to cobble together the following from notes scrawled on a cocktail napkin during our interrogation of our late employee who was supposed to provide this earlier:

"Orpheus was the greatest bard in ancient history, his music going so far as to enthrall even the beasts and birds.

His young wife, Eurydice, died and, being stricken with grief, he descended to the underworld and there he managed to win the favor of the ruling gods with his lyre and song. They agreed to return his wife so long as he walked before her as they left the underworld, and never turned once to look back at her on his way out.

This he didn't manage very successfully. He felt the need to check on her progress, turned to look, and she reached for him, but only grasping air, slipped back into the netherworld, forever."

Plato's Symposium suggests that the gods thought Orpheus' love wasn't true, if he wasn't a pansy zither player he would have pulled a Romeo and offed himself, thus (and perhaps because the dead have no bodies) the rulers of the underworld could only provide him with a shade of Eurydice.

Achilles, on the other hand, passionately attacked the Trojans for the love of Patrocles, despite knowing this would end in his own death, as per his mother's warning.

I guess there is more to the story, given that the Wikipedia article appears quite lengthy, but the cocktail napkins are pretty small, and the ink ran a lot.

Is Plato's Symposium correct in it's assessment? Perhaps. Though, since Circe refers to Odysseus and his companions as 'twice dying men' in the Aeneid after their descent to Hades, could we also consider Orpheus as having similarly died? Does Plato's Phaidros consider this only a figurative death, and thus the gods returned to Orpheus a likewise figurative shade of Eurydice? Real lovers, like Achilles, really die, but those without true love, love only a shade?

No idea. I'm not paid to think, and I'm almost positive another employee is digging through the wall in the linen closet.

Time Saves Truth, and me from copyright gremlins

So, some very important information has recently come to light via the hidden camera installed on a technologically advanced, slightly mutated, reconnaissance grasshopper, that many of you aren't happy with the level of material published here.

Some have claimed this is all a front, an attempt by aliens to masquerade as human, aliens who are secretly writing an article on this planet to publish in an intergalactic guidebook, perhaps, and must supplement their income by writing innocuous blogposts on some abandoned website using substandard English and a passing attempt at appearing halfway sane.

While I admit beer money can always use supplementing, little of that bears any resemblance to the Truth, as Truth is blond and a little pudgy.

Instead, Time flies, as the eagle swims, and the biscuit moseys. Thus, a great deal of effort is expended in the attempt to not only entertain the world, but to contribute to the insane amount of useless blabber that permeates our wonderful internet.

So, here you will find only pastoral bucolics and pseudointellectual nonsense that I dug up from one specific Scientific American issue, circa 1968, and several back issues of Highlights for Awkward Teen Adolescents.

These magazines found their way to a box I picked up from a garage sale a week or two ago, and I found their theory on Dark Matter vaguely unsettling, like when you eat french fries a little too fast, or just when you realize that, no matter how good a Root Beer Float is, you shouldn't have made one in a pitcher.

Danged if I can figure out captions. Once I do, this will all make sense, excepting the bits with text and some of the pictures.

Tough Guy, Eh?

Lego Guys with Tattoos! (via creativeadawards.com)

Good Luck, and see you in the yesterday

One thing I've noticed during my brief moments of insincere study has shown me, is that no matter what rules have been established for writing, great writers do what they must to produce a desired result.

I tend to do whatever I want; I spread semicolons around like fertilizer, because a million commas, though they are useful, just bother me, like a handful of ants crawling around the text, I prefer to eradicate them via parentheses, and semicolons.

Thus, I've found this article interesting (thanks knicely). Not that I've ever read that thing. Oh, no, I can't remember a word of it. I'm sure I've got it around, and had been told to read it, but I've been to busy reading Great Works of Literary Genius, like King Solomon's Mines, The Plant that Ate Dirty Socks, Restaurant at the End of the Universe, and Cat in the Hat.

And now (as previously mentioned) I've made a pretense of studying, as superficially as possible, the great ancients, and generally, when a rule is explained, a subsequent note is added to point out that poets did whatever they wanted, and the rules aren't reliable guideposts in their world. They typically made their own.

Now I'm not saying we should launch ourselves into anarchy (though that would be incredible), all I'm saying that is that that Grammar Nazis Must Die, and If I feel the need, I will tip it generously.

A thingie or something

Well, I liked Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, so why not another parody?

Congrats whoever put this together!

Tripping the Light Fantastic

Love this, reminds me of the Hippie Blood option for Serious Sam:

He who reads these words of wit

"George Stalmos Plato was a rugged individual of ordinary vices, but few thought that he would rob a bank and shoot a handful of policemen during his daring escape, and they were quite right, he didn't.

Instead, he played Parcheesi all day in an underground Chinese gambling den, filled with smoke and the aroma of countless people reenacting pivotal scenes from 'The Deer Hunter'. He played for keeps, and had a huge collection of Parcheesi pieces hidden under the floorboards in his second story walkup outside of Hoboken, Wisconsin.

There, he spent most of his nights sleeping off the whiskey he stole from the other kids desks at Mrs. Henderson's 4th grade class that he attended daily.

His parents, of course, objected strenuously to these audacious undertakings, but the job of a mortician payed well, and there was plenty of time to finish his homework, the clients weren't going anywhere in a hurry.

One time George attempted to skydive, but gravity wouldn't allow it. Because you can only fall down, not up, he discovered. I'm pretty sure he wrote that down, but he was pretty woozy from the serious head injuries he had sustained during this ill fated adventure, and was lucky to make it home in time for his brother's bar mitzvahs the following day.

So, anyway, I'm sure there was a point to this, but my doctor tells me that, due to court order, I'm no longer able to steal his psychiatric files and must resort to merely repeating what Wikileaks posted, which was very little, considering that he lives inside my thumb."

The preceding paragraphs were found scrawled on a bathroom wall at the McDonald's down the street from our corporate headquarters here on the Moon, and we figured it beat the pants off most of the articles we steal here at Prefect Entertainment "Your Unending Source for Edufuntainment, Where Fun is Always Crammed in to Every Damn Thing" (PUYUSEWFACEDT on the NYSE Ticker).

Recent News of Note

So, one of my minions hell-bent on your entertainment, hacked into your webcam and internet browsing history. He spent an hour trying to decipher your ridiculous attempt at organizing files, took some snapshots of you in your undies eating a pile of little chocolate doughnuts (the breakfast of champions), and finally sent in his report to our inept marketing team to use as coasters on their endless drinking binge.

One of those reports (internet browsing history and list of of illegal music downloads, H through Q) wound up in a hotel room next to a dead hooker with a phone number on it (the report). I sent someone in to steal the report back from the police lockup, but apparently it was stolen by a copper with comedic aspirations, and was being used as material for his stand-up routine.

Fortunately, I don't think there is any evidence of our involvement in the matter, but I thought I'd let you all know.

On an unrelated matter, carefully constructed homing humor missiles are at a record low this year, Yakov Smirnoff had this to say "Let me go, I've done nothing! Who are you? I'm calling the police!"

More seriously, why are dead hookers and hobos so funny? People always laugh uncomfortably when they find I've left a few in their apartments, but it should be disturbing and horrible. Go figure.

Have you ever listened to 'Rhapsody in Blue' by Gershwin? It's a masterpiece of musical storytelling. It's the pure emotion of an adventure, raw experience without leaving your brain.

I find the great music I love similar perhaps, in that way, that, while Johnny Cash or Neil Young can sing a fantastic ballad using words to guide us, some composers or artists can create an experience in your mind without any conscious details, an experience of auditory impressionism, as it were, in which your mind constructs an imaginary world, guided only by the flow of music.

Perhaps this could be called 'subconscious', but that's just pretentious psychobabble those left wing elitists use when they call our catering staff in for another round of 'guess the bipolar sou chef'. I prefer my own interpretation of a misunderstood Blakian 'poetic genius', that our souls (our poetic genii) are touched directly by music, like a cat is touched by an electric spark when you rub it against a car battery.

I've been told by our legal department that they are actually 'not lawyers, stop bothering us' but I wonder what would happen if I fired off another nasty letter to the Tallahassee Police Department about their unfavorable portrayal of wallpaper thieves and hobo murderers, but still signed it in the Klingon script favored by my law firm of 'Taco Bell Manager Steve and Guy Who Sells Weed Behind the Gap, LLC, DLC, ACL, RBI'? Would they continue to send undercover bounty hunters and vice squad femme fatales into our corporate headquarters then? Huh, would they? WOULD THEY?

I think not.

Our last lawsuit worked out fine, and our lifetime supply of horse shoes is still going strong, but oddly, our horse shoe store we opened at the Promenade is failing miserably. I attribute that to the underwhelming success of our 'stick horses heads into peoples beds while they sleep' marketing scheme our drunk marketing team scrawled on a napkin for me after I paid them their monthly per diem.

That's it for the news from Lake Woebegonorillshootthisbunnyintheface, where the men are pretty neatly plastered, the women all have Spanish accents, and the children work in coal mines.

Just a few inches to the right

I sat here for a while, desperately waiting for a response to my last post, which was completely educational and sane, but got to thinking.

There is a toilet plunger (a plumber's helper) sitting adjacent my commode, and every time I walk in there, I imagine a scenario in which I completely miss the pot, and descend with full force onto the dry wood handle of the plunger, and accidentally find it rammed several feet into my rectum.

What sort of agony would follow? How much friction would be involved in the removal of said plunger? Would I need to see a doctor, could I face him? Could I come up with a good joke to use in the emergency room to distract everyone from my theoretical predicament?

I don't know.

Oh, and please don't over-analyze this.

YAAAAAARRRRR! Thar she blows!

As a favor to all of you scam artists and spammers who frequent my blog for mindless entertainment and easy money, I've decided to vomit forth a bit of educational sludge for your consumption and perhaps draw you out from your dead end jobs writing bots and spiders to crawl the web looking for morons like us.

To that end, and forthwith, heretofore, and et cetera, et cetera, to wit:

1. Facts are your friends. Feed them well, but not after midnight.

I had a Fact once, but with medication, it cleared up after a day or two.

2. Always spread goodwill and cheer everywhere you go. Nutella might work, but is messy.

I once knew a guy called Cheer Goodwill, but he overdosed on bullets, and his name was Stanley Vermicelli.

3. This space reserved.

4. This space is really number 3.

5. All things are ultimately educational, but not all educational things are really ultimately things, unless you count what isn't really being a thing which isn't.

6. Make sure you edit for clarity, because stuff in your mind is clear to you, but may be useless gibberish to the rest of the world.

I once wrote useless gibberish, but then the New York Times hired me full time and I got writer's block.

Good night everybody!

Sing Merrily

When Helios was high in the heavens, and the earth bore the fury of summer heat, near a quiet, glassy lake, sat a young shepherd, throwing stones into the lake.

He sat on the sandy shore and watched a few geese meander towards a laughing stream that fed the thirsty lake. The stream flowed down from the snowy mountains, and through a dark wood, until it reached the life giving lake, where sat the young man with his flock, and friendly geese.

But soon the curious laughing song of the river lured him away, to follow the bubbling stream, to find the source from which it sprung, to see the voice that sang the song. He left his work behind, and entered the dark wood.

Quickly, the soft mossy shores vanished, and the boy was left to climb on boulders and sharp rocks, and still he followed the voice that now echoed on the rocks, in harmonious song.

Soon the water turned white with rage, threating to dash the careless to pieces in it's angry froth. The voice was faint, nearly drowned by the sound of the violent tempest below, but the boy cautiously continued along, ignored the warning of the friendly stream, in search of the neverending song:

Sing merrily, we rush along,

come and dance with me!

Sing merrily, we'll rush away,

and find the crashing sea!

Dance endlessly, come dance with me!

And we will cross the sea.

Dance and sing,

Laugh merrily,

And we can forever be.

Now the flowing stream gave up it's warning, and revealed a deep blue pool, in the misty mountain. The siren song was now only whispered from the deep, but was overwhelming to the ears of the enchanted lad, who stared into the darkening gloom, hoping to catch a glimpse of the source of the song which had drawn him here.

Night had fallen and Helios' chariot had crossed the sky, the glassy surface of the deepening pool mirrored the refulgent stars above, and the moon illumined the sparkling eyes of a beautiful naiad with her sisters down below. Overcome, the young man hurled himself in, and descended to it's murky depths to join them.

Too tired to go on, must sleep

So I recently watched Repo Man, and I was struck by it's similarities to Donnie Darko. A somewhat angsty fantasy that not only makes a profound comment on society, but leaves you wondering what the hell is going on.

That both of these masterpieces managed to exist despite their respective creators provides me with a conundrum. I don't know if you've seen Southland Tales, or anything else created by the nutjob responsible for Donnie Darko, but they are really insane, as if the dude was given way too much freedom just because of his previous success.

Now I don't know what the hell else Alex Cox, the Repo Man creator did, but I think that proves my point. One burst of creative genius, and that seems to have been it.

Some guys keep doing the same thing over and over, capitalizing on their success, but ultimately driving the world to boredom in a great big monotonous bus. Tim Burton's is painted like a damn mime, and really creepy.

In conclusion, some things just appear to be stuck in a man's brain. Is there a way to escape this creative doldrum? Do escape attempts become monotonous and boring in and of themselves?

Did you know Jim Carrey plays a drugged out rocker in a Dirty Harry movie?