Sunday, November 29, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Dogs
You know how on these blog things, there's the link at the top of the screen that jets you off to somebody else's blog where they are writing about things that, for the most part, have absolutely nothing of interest to anyone, other than a lot of people who are not me? That link is mysterious. What do they mean by "next"? How is this organized, or is it even? These are question that nobody knows except for the designers and also people who are smarter than me.
THE POINT: Sometimes I like to click on that blue underlined text. I'm not sure why. I've never found anything of even remote interest from it in the past, and actually all its ever done to me is make me feel stupid because it appears that EVERYBODY ELSE on here is writing their blogs about something and something even with the intention of others reading it. This depresses me. Not only does my little bloggy have no point, but I write it for me to look over and laugh at because I'm a doofus like that. (Although, admittedly, I did show the History of the Shroom Panda to some of my friends because SHROOM PANDAS ARE BOMB.)
As if that were not enough, these people who share this site with me are generally writing their somethings because what they are doing is exciting, interesting, and/or of value to society. Whether they're on mission trips, vacationing in foreign countries, saving the universe from imminent doom, or getting funding for refugees its all much more exciting than anything I would ever hope to do in my life.
I'M JUST KIDDING, THIS IS THE ACTUAL POINT. THAT LAST BIT WAS JUST ME MEANDERING OFF SUBJECT: So, as I was saying, sometimes I click on the "next blog" button. This is exactly what I did a few minutes ago. And what did I find? 7 blogs about dogs. In a row. The eighth one I clicked on wasn't about dogs. Instead, it had a picture of a little boy in a dog costume for Halloween. Apparently, dogs are big in this region of geekery.
When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Or something.
Monday, August 10, 2009
The Rabid Sea Raccoon in The Travel Section
While perusing through the travel section of his local library one day, The Rabid Sea Raccoon came upon an interesting sight. Right between the shelves, books with pictures and description of far-off destinations towering on either side, there was a small leprechaun.
Curious, The Rabid Sea Raccoon spoke to the leprechaun. "Why are you here in the travel section, Mr. Leprechaun?"
"O'Malley," said the leprechaun. "My name is O'Malley. And don't even get started about how ridiculously cliched and Irish my name is. I don't want to hear it. That's my name, the one I was born with, and I can't really do anything about it."
"Well, techniquely," replied The Rabid Sea Raccoon, "you could change it, but I can understand how horrible it must be--you know, being a leprechaun with a horribly cliched Irish name. See, my name is The Rabid Sea Raccoon, and since I am, obviously, a rabid sea raccoon, it just seems kind of redundant."
"Boy, do I ever hear you on that," said the leprechaun, Mr. O'Malley. "But you know what's really awful about the entire affair?" The Rabid Sea Raccoon was rather interested, and told Mr. O'Malley as much. "I'm not even Irish," Mr. O'Malley said.
The Rabid Sea Raccoon was astonished. "I didn't know there were leprechauns outside of Ireland!"
"Well, there aren't, generally," explained Mr. O'Malley, "but, see, my grandfather was born in Ireland--he moved when he was young--and really leprechauns are a species. I mean, a kangaroo doesn't turn into a deer when its shipped to America, does it? Even the eventual offspring of the American kangaroo are still kangaroos."
"I guess that does make sense..." allowed The Rabid Sea Raccoon. "However, what doesn't make sense is why your grandfather moved. Wasn't there racial tension between Americans and the Irish immigrants back in his time?" The Rabid Sea Raccoon wasn't sure about this, but he did seem to remember reading something like it in a textbook when he was in high school.
"The same reason all the other Irish families moved, that great potatoe famine, or whatever. It didn't hit so hard on leprechauns since we eat so little, but Gramps' father was a go-with-the-flow kind of guy. Since not many other leprechauns had moved, Gramp's family stayed unemployed in the walls of one of the Irish housing developments. Apparently, it really was horrible for the humans, but Gramps never got any of that."
"Oh, well I guess that's a good thing, then," said The Rabid Sea Raccoon, feeling very enlightened, but a little tired.
A very pretty leprechaun scurried up the travel section aisle to Mr. O'Malley. "Well," said Mr. O'Malley. "It's time for me to go. Goodbye, Rabid Sea Raccoon."
"Goodbye, Mr. O'Malley."
The Rabid Sea Raccoon never did find out why a leprechaun was in the travel section of the library.
Curious, The Rabid Sea Raccoon spoke to the leprechaun. "Why are you here in the travel section, Mr. Leprechaun?"
"O'Malley," said the leprechaun. "My name is O'Malley. And don't even get started about how ridiculously cliched and Irish my name is. I don't want to hear it. That's my name, the one I was born with, and I can't really do anything about it."
"Well, techniquely," replied The Rabid Sea Raccoon, "you could change it, but I can understand how horrible it must be--you know, being a leprechaun with a horribly cliched Irish name. See, my name is The Rabid Sea Raccoon, and since I am, obviously, a rabid sea raccoon, it just seems kind of redundant."
"Boy, do I ever hear you on that," said the leprechaun, Mr. O'Malley. "But you know what's really awful about the entire affair?" The Rabid Sea Raccoon was rather interested, and told Mr. O'Malley as much. "I'm not even Irish," Mr. O'Malley said.
The Rabid Sea Raccoon was astonished. "I didn't know there were leprechauns outside of Ireland!"
"Well, there aren't, generally," explained Mr. O'Malley, "but, see, my grandfather was born in Ireland--he moved when he was young--and really leprechauns are a species. I mean, a kangaroo doesn't turn into a deer when its shipped to America, does it? Even the eventual offspring of the American kangaroo are still kangaroos."
"I guess that does make sense..." allowed The Rabid Sea Raccoon. "However, what doesn't make sense is why your grandfather moved. Wasn't there racial tension between Americans and the Irish immigrants back in his time?" The Rabid Sea Raccoon wasn't sure about this, but he did seem to remember reading something like it in a textbook when he was in high school.
"The same reason all the other Irish families moved, that great potatoe famine, or whatever. It didn't hit so hard on leprechauns since we eat so little, but Gramps' father was a go-with-the-flow kind of guy. Since not many other leprechauns had moved, Gramp's family stayed unemployed in the walls of one of the Irish housing developments. Apparently, it really was horrible for the humans, but Gramps never got any of that."
"Oh, well I guess that's a good thing, then," said The Rabid Sea Raccoon, feeling very enlightened, but a little tired.
A very pretty leprechaun scurried up the travel section aisle to Mr. O'Malley. "Well," said Mr. O'Malley. "It's time for me to go. Goodbye, Rabid Sea Raccoon."
"Goodbye, Mr. O'Malley."
The Rabid Sea Raccoon never did find out why a leprechaun was in the travel section of the library.
Friday, July 17, 2009
The Shroom Panda: A History
Of all Pandas, there is one panda that stands above them all. That's right, I'm talking about the rare and sympathetic Shroom Panda.
When all other pandas would scoff you and then proceed with tearing your arms off, the Shroom Panda will compassionately sit with you and eat your wild mushroom roasted over the fire. What makes the Shroom Panda so different from the others of its species (i.e. the Great Panda, the Grand Panda, and the Abnormally Small Panda) is a peace treaty. In a time way before any of us were born, even the immortals and really old guys next door, there was a great war. The war was between genetically engineered triplets and, of course, the Shroom Pandas. It was called The War of Shrooms and Genetically Engineered Triplets, sometimes shortened to That War With the Freaks or The War on That Mountain Over There.
Anyway, the war went on for over three years. The result was one squirrel casualty, a serious chocolate crave, and millions of wounded egos. The triplets blocked off all trade with the pandas, and the pandas made snide remarks about the triplets' freakish family. One of the Shroom Pandas, a General Motstiffa-Bear, was quoted as saying, "Your brother is an alien, your sister is a ninja, and you three look exactly the same. Its freaking me out!" At that statement, one of the triplets (you can never know which one) stole the general's most rare and expensive Star Wars trading card.
After 3 2/4 years, the triplets' younger brother got irritated and ran away from home. The triplets were so astounded by the fact that their brother had emotions and was human--they had thought all along that he was just a robot made by their alien brother on his home planet--that they forgot all about the war. The Shroom Pandas were confused at first, but later relieved because they realized that after three years and a half the war wasn't really going anywhere at all. And also, due to the lapse in trade blockage, they were able to replenished their dwindling stock of cantaloupes.
For appearances, the Shroom Pandas wrote up a peace treaty which was signed by the younger alien brother of the triplets, and thus peace was restored in the mountains.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Clarence the Ex-Nephrologist
Nephrology is "the branch of medical science that deals with the kidney," as according to dictionary.com.
Clarence is a former kidney doctor man. How utterly splendid! Not really. Because as wonderful and heroic and well-paying as nephrology is, it really isn't all that wonderful or heroic. Or at least for Clarence. (Well-paying, however, it was without debate...or at least for Clarence.)
Becoming more and more immersed in mild depression, Clarence waded through his world half-unconciously.
And then one day somebody died. When asked, the hospital's CEO would reply, 'No comment.' When asked, Clarence's assistant would get very angry and throw large objects. When asked, anyone who knew would invariably not answer the question. And who could really ask such a dour person, such as Clarence?
Whatever the cause, the death of this person, one of Clarence's many patients, seemed to most to be the ultimate cause of his retirement from the medical profession.
Clarence was young--almost too young, it seemed, to be such a highly prestigious doctor. He had had a large, high-class apartment that he traded for a run-down cheap little place with two rooms both approximately the size of a large paper airplane once his two-weeks after notice were over. He had previously owned a grand piano, for which he made an account on ebay exclusively. Clarence used to get his hair trimmed on Fridays, his shoes polished on Sundays, and his back massaged every Thursday afternoon. Now he let his hair grow, rarely even wore shoes, and certainly didn't pay lots of money for a back massage.
Tired and worn-out, Clarence searched for work, to no avail. It was a small city and Clarence was a rather famous person, and rumor of the death spread out far, a new-found stigma to haunt him.
But then one day, as he returned home from another day's epic, unyielding quest, there was a message on his cheap answering machine about a job offer. The potential employer in question claimed to be Clarence's cousin a-lot-removed, and had heard he was in search of a job from an old senile aunt of the "cousin's", and maybe Clarence'd met her? Her name was Agatha, as many great-aunts are, and she made pickled yams. Returning to the subject, the cousin asked if perhaps Clarence would swing by Wednesday? He didn't give an address, but said Clarence would be sure to find it if he looked really hard.
There was a click signifying the hanging up of a phone and the end of the message.
The next day Clarence went on another quest, the same old journey, the same tiresome superficial how-d'you-do. His search for employment. After failing miserably four times in as many hours, Clarence began to hesitantly pick at the strange job offer from the night before.
"Clarence?" asked a voice. The owner of the voice was no one Clarence knew, but then again most people had heard of him in this part of the state.
"Yes," he replied.
"Wonderful!" cried the stranger. "You may begin work in two hours!"
Clarence is a former kidney doctor man. How utterly splendid! Not really. Because as wonderful and heroic and well-paying as nephrology is, it really isn't all that wonderful or heroic. Or at least for Clarence. (Well-paying, however, it was without debate...or at least for Clarence.)
Becoming more and more immersed in mild depression, Clarence waded through his world half-unconciously.
And then one day somebody died. When asked, the hospital's CEO would reply, 'No comment.' When asked, Clarence's assistant would get very angry and throw large objects. When asked, anyone who knew would invariably not answer the question. And who could really ask such a dour person, such as Clarence?
Whatever the cause, the death of this person, one of Clarence's many patients, seemed to most to be the ultimate cause of his retirement from the medical profession.
Clarence was young--almost too young, it seemed, to be such a highly prestigious doctor. He had had a large, high-class apartment that he traded for a run-down cheap little place with two rooms both approximately the size of a large paper airplane once his two-weeks after notice were over. He had previously owned a grand piano, for which he made an account on ebay exclusively. Clarence used to get his hair trimmed on Fridays, his shoes polished on Sundays, and his back massaged every Thursday afternoon. Now he let his hair grow, rarely even wore shoes, and certainly didn't pay lots of money for a back massage.
Tired and worn-out, Clarence searched for work, to no avail. It was a small city and Clarence was a rather famous person, and rumor of the death spread out far, a new-found stigma to haunt him.
But then one day, as he returned home from another day's epic, unyielding quest, there was a message on his cheap answering machine about a job offer. The potential employer in question claimed to be Clarence's cousin a-lot-removed, and had heard he was in search of a job from an old senile aunt of the "cousin's", and maybe Clarence'd met her? Her name was Agatha, as many great-aunts are, and she made pickled yams. Returning to the subject, the cousin asked if perhaps Clarence would swing by Wednesday? He didn't give an address, but said Clarence would be sure to find it if he looked really hard.
There was a click signifying the hanging up of a phone and the end of the message.
The next day Clarence went on another quest, the same old journey, the same tiresome superficial how-d'you-do. His search for employment. After failing miserably four times in as many hours, Clarence began to hesitantly pick at the strange job offer from the night before.
"Clarence?" asked a voice. The owner of the voice was no one Clarence knew, but then again most people had heard of him in this part of the state.
"Yes," he replied.
"Wonderful!" cried the stranger. "You may begin work in two hours!"
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
The Plantation
I got this blog on a whim. Now I'm asking myself, What do you really do with a blog? What can I do with one?? And then I'm answering myself, How the hell should I know?! You're the one who got the damn thing!
So for now, I will simply introduce you to The Rabid Sea Raccoon.
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