You might be like me if...
...the thought of walking up to a deer, offering it a carrot, slitting its throat and calling it hunting makes you laugh out loud multiple times, even when noone is around.
...pretending to have autism or Turret's syndrome (or both) and saying phrases like "Susan Thomas, FBI...Son of a *$&%^!!," or "Starker Arts Park" brings waves of tumultuous joy crashing all over your body.
Friday, August 12, 2005
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
WHAT I’D SAY TO THE MARTIANS
A guest article by my personal confidant Jack Handy. Taken from this week's New Yorker magazine.
WHAT I’D SAY TO THE MARTIANS
People of Mars, you say we are brutes and savages. But let me tell you one thing: if I could get loose from this cage you have me in, I would tear you guys a new Martian asshole.You say we are violent and barbaric, but has any one of you come up to my cage and extended his hand? Because, if he did, I would jerk it off and eat it right in front of him. “Mmm, that’s good Martian,” I would say.
You say your civilization is more advanced than ours. But who is really the more “civilized” one? You, standing there watching this cage? Or me, with my pants down, trying to urinate on you? You criticize our Earth religions, saying they have no relevance to the way we actually live. But think about this: if I could get my hands on that god of yours, I would grab his skinny neck and choke him until his big green head exploded.
We are a warlike species, you claim, and you show me films of Earth battles to prove it. But I have seen all the films about twenty times. Get some new films, or, so help me, if I ever get out of here I will empty my laser pistol into everyone I see, even pets.
Speaking of films, I could show you some films, films that portray a different, gentler side of Earth. And while you’re watching the films I’d sort of slip away, because guess what: the projector is actually a thing that shoots out spinning blades! And you fell for it! Well, maybe not now you wouldn’t.
You point to your long tradition of living peacefully with Earth. But you know what I point to? Your stupid heads.
You say there is much your civilization could teach ours. But perhaps there is something that I could teach you—namely, how to scream like a parrot when I put your big Martian head in a vise.
You claim there are other intelligent beings in the galaxy besides earthlings and Martians. Good, then we can attack them together. And after we’re through attacking them we’ll attack you.
I came here in peace, seeking gold and slaves. But you have treated me like an intruder. Maybe it is not me who is the intruder but you.
No, not me. You, stupid.
You keep my body imprisoned in this cage. But I am able to transport my mind to a place far away, a happier place, where I use Martian heads for batting practice.
I admit that sometimes I think we are not so different after all. When you see one of your old ones trip and fall down, do you not point and laugh, just as we on Earth do? And I think we can agree that nothing is more admired by the people of Earth and Mars alike than a fine, high-quality cigarette. For fun, we humans like to ski down mountains covered with snow; you like to“milk” bacteria off of scum hills and pack them into your gill slits. Are we so different? Of course we are, and you will be even more different if I ever finish my homemade flamethrower.
You may kill me, either on purpose or by not making sure that all the surfaces in my cage are safe to lick. But you can’t kill an idea. And that idea is: me chasing you with a big wooden mallet.
You say you will release me only if I sign a statement saying that I will not attack you. And I have agreed, the only condition being that I can sign with a long sharp pen. And still you keep me locked up.
True, you have allowed me reading material—not the “human reproduction” magazines I requested but the works of your greatest philosopher, Zandor or Zanax or whatever his name is. I would like to discuss his ideas with him—just me, him, and one of his big, heavy books.
If you will not free me, at least deliver a message to Earth. Send my love to my wife, and also to my girlfriend. And to my children, if I have any anyplace. Ask my wife to please send me a bazooka, which is a flower we have on Earth. If my so-called friend Don asks you where the money I owe him is, please anally probe him. Do that anyway.
If you keep me imprisoned long enough, eventually I will die. Because one thing you Martians do not understand is that we humans cannot live without our freedom. So, if you see me lying lifeless in my cage, come on in, because I’m dead. Really.
Maybe one day we will not be the enemies you make us out to be. Perhaps one day a little Earth child will sit down to play with a little Martian child, or larva, or whatever they are. But, after a while, guess what happens: the little Martian tries to eat the Earth child. But guess what the Earth child has? A gun. You weren’t expecting that, were you? And now the Martian child is running away, as fast as he can. Run, little Martian baby, run!
I would like to thank everyone for coming to my cage tonight to hear my speech. Donations will be gratefully accepted. (No Mars money, please.)
WHAT I’D SAY TO THE MARTIANS
People of Mars, you say we are brutes and savages. But let me tell you one thing: if I could get loose from this cage you have me in, I would tear you guys a new Martian asshole.You say we are violent and barbaric, but has any one of you come up to my cage and extended his hand? Because, if he did, I would jerk it off and eat it right in front of him. “Mmm, that’s good Martian,” I would say.
You say your civilization is more advanced than ours. But who is really the more “civilized” one? You, standing there watching this cage? Or me, with my pants down, trying to urinate on you? You criticize our Earth religions, saying they have no relevance to the way we actually live. But think about this: if I could get my hands on that god of yours, I would grab his skinny neck and choke him until his big green head exploded.
We are a warlike species, you claim, and you show me films of Earth battles to prove it. But I have seen all the films about twenty times. Get some new films, or, so help me, if I ever get out of here I will empty my laser pistol into everyone I see, even pets.
Speaking of films, I could show you some films, films that portray a different, gentler side of Earth. And while you’re watching the films I’d sort of slip away, because guess what: the projector is actually a thing that shoots out spinning blades! And you fell for it! Well, maybe not now you wouldn’t.
You point to your long tradition of living peacefully with Earth. But you know what I point to? Your stupid heads.
You say there is much your civilization could teach ours. But perhaps there is something that I could teach you—namely, how to scream like a parrot when I put your big Martian head in a vise.
You claim there are other intelligent beings in the galaxy besides earthlings and Martians. Good, then we can attack them together. And after we’re through attacking them we’ll attack you.
I came here in peace, seeking gold and slaves. But you have treated me like an intruder. Maybe it is not me who is the intruder but you.
No, not me. You, stupid.
You keep my body imprisoned in this cage. But I am able to transport my mind to a place far away, a happier place, where I use Martian heads for batting practice.
I admit that sometimes I think we are not so different after all. When you see one of your old ones trip and fall down, do you not point and laugh, just as we on Earth do? And I think we can agree that nothing is more admired by the people of Earth and Mars alike than a fine, high-quality cigarette. For fun, we humans like to ski down mountains covered with snow; you like to“milk” bacteria off of scum hills and pack them into your gill slits. Are we so different? Of course we are, and you will be even more different if I ever finish my homemade flamethrower.
You may kill me, either on purpose or by not making sure that all the surfaces in my cage are safe to lick. But you can’t kill an idea. And that idea is: me chasing you with a big wooden mallet.
You say you will release me only if I sign a statement saying that I will not attack you. And I have agreed, the only condition being that I can sign with a long sharp pen. And still you keep me locked up.
True, you have allowed me reading material—not the “human reproduction” magazines I requested but the works of your greatest philosopher, Zandor or Zanax or whatever his name is. I would like to discuss his ideas with him—just me, him, and one of his big, heavy books.
If you will not free me, at least deliver a message to Earth. Send my love to my wife, and also to my girlfriend. And to my children, if I have any anyplace. Ask my wife to please send me a bazooka, which is a flower we have on Earth. If my so-called friend Don asks you where the money I owe him is, please anally probe him. Do that anyway.
If you keep me imprisoned long enough, eventually I will die. Because one thing you Martians do not understand is that we humans cannot live without our freedom. So, if you see me lying lifeless in my cage, come on in, because I’m dead. Really.
Maybe one day we will not be the enemies you make us out to be. Perhaps one day a little Earth child will sit down to play with a little Martian child, or larva, or whatever they are. But, after a while, guess what happens: the little Martian tries to eat the Earth child. But guess what the Earth child has? A gun. You weren’t expecting that, were you? And now the Martian child is running away, as fast as he can. Run, little Martian baby, run!
I would like to thank everyone for coming to my cage tonight to hear my speech. Donations will be gratefully accepted. (No Mars money, please.)
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Interview With A Thrush
Yestereve a little bird flew in through my bedroom window and perched itself on my favorite teddy bear. I, wearing nothing but my coy smile, glared at it inquiringly. It cocked it's bird neck to the left and spoke. "All that is left of you is what hasn't been taken. The water for tea is boiling." After pronouncing these curious words it promptly left me alone with my thoughts. I felt it right to put on my "thinking" stocking cap before analyzing the encrypted message. I played with my cap's tassle, twisting it with my delicately braided rat tail. After a few minutes of thinking I started to develop a killer headache. I replaced my "thinking" cap back on it's stand and went outside to play some homerun derby.
Monday, July 11, 2005
And I shall smitest thee.
It is finished. I have conquered the beast - it lies slain upon my desk before me as I trumpet my victory to you, my fellow collegians (def. "a college student or recent college graduate").
My prey: Ayn Rand's 700-page journey through the cracks and crevasses of her somewhat confusing objectivist philosophy in the title, The Fountainhead. Rand, an ardent atheist and capitalist writes her story through one hero, a Mr. Howard Roark. Roark is the archetypal masculine creator who finds meaning in life through his architecture - designing buildings not for the sake of others, but for his own purposes and ego. He shows little emotion, is entirely selfish (the primary point of Rand's book is that selfishness is a virtue), and has integrity that is irreproachable.
He refuses to be what Rand calls a "second-hander," one who lives through and for others rather than for oneself. The characters who represent the second-handers are all socialists and/or social workers of some kind. They seek to better the lives of others but ultimately end only in seeking power. They justify coercion of individuals by appeals to the greater good of mankind or the necessity of equality.
Of course, Rand seeks to make a point that a collective society does great harm to individuals and that socialism has a long history of coercion and corruption - her point it well taken by this reader, but it should be noted that these broad brush strokes with which she lays it on very thickly can't be imbibed as broadly as she means. Not all collectivists seek to coerce, not all leftists seek power. Nevertheless, as her work is a fictitious novel, Rand seems to take the appropriate liberties when portraying characters as she does to make her points clear.
To the theme of selfishness, I wonder if the libertinism that Rand proposes can be brought to live in peace with Christianity' doctrine of living for others - of dying to the self - of not living for one's selfish gain? To a certain degree, and in a certain way, Christianity does say that you should live for yourself; you should seek to be the most satisfied in God so that you can glorify Him better. In living to your own spiritual gain God is glorified and you are happy. In the case of Rand's manuscript the primary difference with Christianity seems to be that man has supplanted God. Man is to be glorified, man is the end-all be-all, and it is not a spiritual gain man seeks, it is merely material or personal.
What the relation is between the two, I don't really know, but I hope that in reading David Boaz's Libertarianism: A Primer I may come to some conclusions.
Finally, Rand's book reads very easily, has some of the most interesting characters you will ever meet, and a plot that is...well...riveting (note the pun as regards architecture). I recommend it to all of you as an excellent read well worth your time, and an excellent introduction to the pitfalls of collectivism and statism, or why capitalism is to be preferred to all other economic systems. However, as you read it, you will disagree with many of Rand's presuppositions and arguments that regard the existence of God or the nature of Christianity, but understanding her perspective may prove to be valuable to you.
JK 7/11/05
My prey: Ayn Rand's 700-page journey through the cracks and crevasses of her somewhat confusing objectivist philosophy in the title, The Fountainhead. Rand, an ardent atheist and capitalist writes her story through one hero, a Mr. Howard Roark. Roark is the archetypal masculine creator who finds meaning in life through his architecture - designing buildings not for the sake of others, but for his own purposes and ego. He shows little emotion, is entirely selfish (the primary point of Rand's book is that selfishness is a virtue), and has integrity that is irreproachable.
He refuses to be what Rand calls a "second-hander," one who lives through and for others rather than for oneself. The characters who represent the second-handers are all socialists and/or social workers of some kind. They seek to better the lives of others but ultimately end only in seeking power. They justify coercion of individuals by appeals to the greater good of mankind or the necessity of equality.
Of course, Rand seeks to make a point that a collective society does great harm to individuals and that socialism has a long history of coercion and corruption - her point it well taken by this reader, but it should be noted that these broad brush strokes with which she lays it on very thickly can't be imbibed as broadly as she means. Not all collectivists seek to coerce, not all leftists seek power. Nevertheless, as her work is a fictitious novel, Rand seems to take the appropriate liberties when portraying characters as she does to make her points clear.
To the theme of selfishness, I wonder if the libertinism that Rand proposes can be brought to live in peace with Christianity' doctrine of living for others - of dying to the self - of not living for one's selfish gain? To a certain degree, and in a certain way, Christianity does say that you should live for yourself; you should seek to be the most satisfied in God so that you can glorify Him better. In living to your own spiritual gain God is glorified and you are happy. In the case of Rand's manuscript the primary difference with Christianity seems to be that man has supplanted God. Man is to be glorified, man is the end-all be-all, and it is not a spiritual gain man seeks, it is merely material or personal.
What the relation is between the two, I don't really know, but I hope that in reading David Boaz's Libertarianism: A Primer I may come to some conclusions.
Finally, Rand's book reads very easily, has some of the most interesting characters you will ever meet, and a plot that is...well...riveting (note the pun as regards architecture). I recommend it to all of you as an excellent read well worth your time, and an excellent introduction to the pitfalls of collectivism and statism, or why capitalism is to be preferred to all other economic systems. However, as you read it, you will disagree with many of Rand's presuppositions and arguments that regard the existence of God or the nature of Christianity, but understanding her perspective may prove to be valuable to you.
JK 7/11/05
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Finally
It's safe to say that I have been anxiously awaiting an invitation to join this mythical and revered group of bloggers. After mainly sleepless nights checking my inbox over and over for that coveted email, I had begun to slip into despair. I stopped eating, reading, peri-care, I was a wreck. My parents were even openly ridiculing me at family events and calling me "the stupid one" and "the mistake". But on this glorious night I feel as one reborn. I have received the invitation, the golden ticket that will allow me into the clandestine land of chocolate rivers, oompa loompas, and snozzberries. This is better than the time my name appeared, albeit mistakenly, in the Barometer as one of the lucky men invited to the Alpha Gamma Delta barn dance.
Some of you may question what I have to bring to the group, thinking that all I do is stare lustily into mouths all day and that teeth consume my every waking thought. All that I can say is that just as there was more to our friend JC than hammering nails into boards and cutting a sweet dove tail joint, I'm more than a fluoride pushing, amalgam packing robot. Keep it real people.
Some of you may question what I have to bring to the group, thinking that all I do is stare lustily into mouths all day and that teeth consume my every waking thought. All that I can say is that just as there was more to our friend JC than hammering nails into boards and cutting a sweet dove tail joint, I'm more than a fluoride pushing, amalgam packing robot. Keep it real people.
Monday, June 20, 2005
In Bondage over Of Human Bondage?
I apologize for the tardiness of this post- it has been long promised, but only now realized. Joel, and any of you who have not read Of Human Bondage, you may want to skip this post. Many of my thoughts concerning Of Human Bondage have faded with time, and my fresh dislike of the book has dulled as well. I think I have begun to appreciate Mr. Maugham's eloquent articulation of his worldview.
Philip, when he at last captures the meaning of the Persian rug, discovers that "Life had no meaning. . . Philip exulted, as he had exulted in his boyhood when the weight of a belief in God was lifted from his shoulders; it seemed to him that the last burden of responsibility was taken from him; and for the first time he was utterly free. His insignificance was turned to power, and he felt himself suddenly equal with the cruel fate which had seemed to persecute him; for if life was meaningless, the world was robbed of its cruelty." Maugham seems to write a story consistent to this worldview- Philip's life is pretty hopeless and cruel. It is only after Philip realizes this that he is able to be happy. Unfortunately, it takes a while for him to come to this revelation, and we have to read about him making a lot of stupid mistakes in the meantime.
Throughout the entire story, I was hoping Philip would begin to be reasonable and see the logic in the Christian worldview that permeates his life. I see now that was a little naive. I was hoping somehow that he would be able to redeem some of the poor choices he had made in his life, and that he would become a more attractive person. And while he was making better choices near the end of the book, he didn't change enough to satisfy me. But I now realize that even though I disliked Philip as a person, it doesn't mean I should dismiss the entire book. Perhaps the next time I read a novel by Mr. Maugham, I'll be better prepared for his depressing view of the world and I'll be able to appreciate his talent as a writer.
Philip, when he at last captures the meaning of the Persian rug, discovers that "Life had no meaning. . . Philip exulted, as he had exulted in his boyhood when the weight of a belief in God was lifted from his shoulders; it seemed to him that the last burden of responsibility was taken from him; and for the first time he was utterly free. His insignificance was turned to power, and he felt himself suddenly equal with the cruel fate which had seemed to persecute him; for if life was meaningless, the world was robbed of its cruelty." Maugham seems to write a story consistent to this worldview- Philip's life is pretty hopeless and cruel. It is only after Philip realizes this that he is able to be happy. Unfortunately, it takes a while for him to come to this revelation, and we have to read about him making a lot of stupid mistakes in the meantime.
Throughout the entire story, I was hoping Philip would begin to be reasonable and see the logic in the Christian worldview that permeates his life. I see now that was a little naive. I was hoping somehow that he would be able to redeem some of the poor choices he had made in his life, and that he would become a more attractive person. And while he was making better choices near the end of the book, he didn't change enough to satisfy me. But I now realize that even though I disliked Philip as a person, it doesn't mean I should dismiss the entire book. Perhaps the next time I read a novel by Mr. Maugham, I'll be better prepared for his depressing view of the world and I'll be able to appreciate his talent as a writer.
A Private Cleaning
This post contains explicit content, parental discretion is advised (unless your parent is also my parent... then don't worry about it)
"Today we're practicing peri-care" says Lynda with a smirk. Everyone in the class laughs, I laugh too but I'm not sure at what. Lynda opens the locked cupboard and reaches for something in the back. My lingering smile turns to astonishment as I realize what she has. I can't believe she is holding a fake vagina in her hand! She sets it down and reaches again... I can't look for fear of what is to come! The next thing I know Lynda is prying my hands from my eyes. "Jackie! It's just a wash rag... but what you fear comes tomorrow." The entire class erupts with laughter. I run out of the room. I guess I'm not cut out to clean elderly private parts... I'm off to find another career!
"Today we're practicing peri-care" says Lynda with a smirk. Everyone in the class laughs, I laugh too but I'm not sure at what. Lynda opens the locked cupboard and reaches for something in the back. My lingering smile turns to astonishment as I realize what she has. I can't believe she is holding a fake vagina in her hand! She sets it down and reaches again... I can't look for fear of what is to come! The next thing I know Lynda is prying my hands from my eyes. "Jackie! It's just a wash rag... but what you fear comes tomorrow." The entire class erupts with laughter. I run out of the room. I guess I'm not cut out to clean elderly private parts... I'm off to find another career!
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Grand Poobah of What?
For nearly three hours they processed and danced round me in their varicolored robes - their hoods flowing from their shoulders, marking them out against the victims, of whom I was only one out of many. They were neither fit nor weak, fair nor foul, but they had us under their thumb, as it would seem.
A large fat one, in black and red vestments taunted us with long, degrading speeches regarding monkeys and snakes - why? I don't know. But, the crowds cheered, as if the beasts in the coliseum had just made the first kill, and the fresh blood had drizzled down anxious jaws meeting immortal dust.
"How long?" I mused, "Will their incessant intimidation never cease?" They marched us in, will they march us out?
Where is the document they said would grant me my freedom? Is it a myth - perhaps a cruel trick to keep me sitting in this wretched, skin-scathing sun.
It matters not a wit - my will to live under their rule is crushed. My spirit tamed; my hopes dashed; my love taken from me.
Thus, I process, a robed and tasseled fool, a wayward wanderer.
A large fat one, in black and red vestments taunted us with long, degrading speeches regarding monkeys and snakes - why? I don't know. But, the crowds cheered, as if the beasts in the coliseum had just made the first kill, and the fresh blood had drizzled down anxious jaws meeting immortal dust.
"How long?" I mused, "Will their incessant intimidation never cease?" They marched us in, will they march us out?
Where is the document they said would grant me my freedom? Is it a myth - perhaps a cruel trick to keep me sitting in this wretched, skin-scathing sun.
It matters not a wit - my will to live under their rule is crushed. My spirit tamed; my hopes dashed; my love taken from me.
Thus, I process, a robed and tasseled fool, a wayward wanderer.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Sunday, May 22, 2005
The Continued Adventures of Cedric and Teddy Ruxbin
In which our young heroes, Cedric and Teddy, find themselves lost in the Giant Mushroom Forest.
The sun had long sunk below the shroom line that hid the true horizon and the Bugling Lemurs had begun their eery lullabye. The friendly critters that could have been seen rummaging for nuts and spores during the day had wisely retired to their mushroom huts awaiting the reemergance of the NearStar.
Cedric woke from his peaceful nap and rubbed his eyes. He look around, alarmed. He quickly flicked on Teddy's switch and impatiently awaited his cognition to return. "Teddy, oh dear, Teddy! We've slept too long." Cedric cried in his endearing accent. "Supper has surely been served. Mother will be so worried." Teddy responded in his strangely human voice, "Do calm down Cedric. We'll simply retrace our steps and be out of this dreadful wood." "That's just it Teddy. I don't remember from which direction we came from." Teddy quickly surveyed their perimeter and admitted that even he could not recall whence they had come. "Quite a tangle we've managed to get ourselves into, eh, Master Cedric." He let out a programmed laugh for the purpose of raising morale his young comrade. "I propose we begin walking in that direction, theirs no use in just sitting here waiting for the Blood ants to find us." "Don't be silly Teddy. Blood ants don't really exist...do they?" Teddy frowned, "Let's begin, shall we."
The two friends walked on bravely, hoping that the path they had chosen would lead them back to the Purple River, which was very near the home of Cedric's father.
The path was dark and frightening, for all the pair had to illuminate their way was the small amount of light Teddy was able to generate from his circuitry. As they trotted along they began to sing their favorite songs in order to keep the bad creatures away.
"Babies are small. Babies bore.
Hurrah! We're not babies no more.
Kick the can, slap the hand
Spit on girls, pull their curls
Kiss a toad, a warty toad
Hurrah, hurrah, hurray!"
Suddenly behind a particularly large mushroom stump, Cedric spied two eyes. "Who goes their?" Cedric shouted, suprised at his own bravery. "I say, come out from their, lest we get angry." From the darkness stepped they strangest, most pitful creature they had ever seen.
To be continued.
The sun had long sunk below the shroom line that hid the true horizon and the Bugling Lemurs had begun their eery lullabye. The friendly critters that could have been seen rummaging for nuts and spores during the day had wisely retired to their mushroom huts awaiting the reemergance of the NearStar.
Cedric woke from his peaceful nap and rubbed his eyes. He look around, alarmed. He quickly flicked on Teddy's switch and impatiently awaited his cognition to return. "Teddy, oh dear, Teddy! We've slept too long." Cedric cried in his endearing accent. "Supper has surely been served. Mother will be so worried." Teddy responded in his strangely human voice, "Do calm down Cedric. We'll simply retrace our steps and be out of this dreadful wood." "That's just it Teddy. I don't remember from which direction we came from." Teddy quickly surveyed their perimeter and admitted that even he could not recall whence they had come. "Quite a tangle we've managed to get ourselves into, eh, Master Cedric." He let out a programmed laugh for the purpose of raising morale his young comrade. "I propose we begin walking in that direction, theirs no use in just sitting here waiting for the Blood ants to find us." "Don't be silly Teddy. Blood ants don't really exist...do they?" Teddy frowned, "Let's begin, shall we."
The two friends walked on bravely, hoping that the path they had chosen would lead them back to the Purple River, which was very near the home of Cedric's father.
The path was dark and frightening, for all the pair had to illuminate their way was the small amount of light Teddy was able to generate from his circuitry. As they trotted along they began to sing their favorite songs in order to keep the bad creatures away.
"Babies are small. Babies bore.
Hurrah! We're not babies no more.
Kick the can, slap the hand
Spit on girls, pull their curls
Kiss a toad, a warty toad
Hurrah, hurrah, hurray!"
Suddenly behind a particularly large mushroom stump, Cedric spied two eyes. "Who goes their?" Cedric shouted, suprised at his own bravery. "I say, come out from their, lest we get angry." From the darkness stepped they strangest, most pitful creature they had ever seen.
To be continued.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Another Stranger
The soft chair encapsulated our hero's geometric shape to a "T". Quiet, overplayed songs resonated under the threshold of the coffee shop patrons as I sat reading Camus.
He - our hero - wore his dark hair short with every portion in its desired place and rectangular, dark-rimmed glasses, the perfect accent added to his rigidly angled features.
The book he sat reading was one I had never heard of. It was worn around its grey, cloth-bound edges. Our hero's intent, expressionless gaze never escaped its pages. And as is obvious from my description, Camus wasn't enough to hold my attention - at least, not how our hero's was held.
I studied him for some time - from his motionless black shoes to his set jaw. That is, until another creature became the object of my interest.
This loosely dressed, long-haired male swaggered through the glass doors and took a seat three chairs to the left of our hero. I only had to move my eyes above my book to view both figures.
The sloppy one tossed a bare foot over the arm of his leather chair and pulled a paperback out of his cloth sling-bag.
His eyes passed through every possible angle in the room and his fidgety body shifted every several moments until finally, the book he had chosen grabbed his bright stare. He let out a chuckle. Several of the urban regulars at the front bar looked over their shoulders but continued their conversations - our defiant hero did not budge.
The long-hair started to read his book aloud and I began to hate him: others were obviously annoyed. No-one spoke anything to the stranger as he continued reading his ridiculous book - "the cushion of energy and the sense of smell...colored forearms and feelings of absence..." He continued, growing louder.
Despite the incessant rambling of the stranger, the entire shop had turned snowy quiet.
In an instant everything changed. Our hero, without moving his eyes from his pages calculatedly moved his left hand into his black, leather briefcase and removed it grasping a small, black gun.
He swept the piece through the air where his line of sight met it - aimed confidently at the stranger's temple.
Our hero squeezed the trigger with the same intentional concentration he had given his book.
The stranger's voice was quieted and the only sources of noise present in the small cafe were the involuntary twitching of the stranger's legs on the stained carpet floor and the latch of the door, where our hero had made his exit.
Fade into applause.
He - our hero - wore his dark hair short with every portion in its desired place and rectangular, dark-rimmed glasses, the perfect accent added to his rigidly angled features.
The book he sat reading was one I had never heard of. It was worn around its grey, cloth-bound edges. Our hero's intent, expressionless gaze never escaped its pages. And as is obvious from my description, Camus wasn't enough to hold my attention - at least, not how our hero's was held.
I studied him for some time - from his motionless black shoes to his set jaw. That is, until another creature became the object of my interest.
This loosely dressed, long-haired male swaggered through the glass doors and took a seat three chairs to the left of our hero. I only had to move my eyes above my book to view both figures.
The sloppy one tossed a bare foot over the arm of his leather chair and pulled a paperback out of his cloth sling-bag.
His eyes passed through every possible angle in the room and his fidgety body shifted every several moments until finally, the book he had chosen grabbed his bright stare. He let out a chuckle. Several of the urban regulars at the front bar looked over their shoulders but continued their conversations - our defiant hero did not budge.
The long-hair started to read his book aloud and I began to hate him: others were obviously annoyed. No-one spoke anything to the stranger as he continued reading his ridiculous book - "the cushion of energy and the sense of smell...colored forearms and feelings of absence..." He continued, growing louder.
Despite the incessant rambling of the stranger, the entire shop had turned snowy quiet.
In an instant everything changed. Our hero, without moving his eyes from his pages calculatedly moved his left hand into his black, leather briefcase and removed it grasping a small, black gun.
He swept the piece through the air where his line of sight met it - aimed confidently at the stranger's temple.
Our hero squeezed the trigger with the same intentional concentration he had given his book.
The stranger's voice was quieted and the only sources of noise present in the small cafe were the involuntary twitching of the stranger's legs on the stained carpet floor and the latch of the door, where our hero had made his exit.
Fade into applause.
I'm sorry I pushed you off the couch...
...onto the carpeted floor.
I want you to know I regretted the action immediately
and my heart was angry at my head for being so thoughtless.
It was nice waking up with you in my arms,
but it was hot.
JK
I want you to know I regretted the action immediately
and my heart was angry at my head for being so thoughtless.
It was nice waking up with you in my arms,
but it was hot.
JK
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