Sunday, July 25, 2010

Exerpt from page 80,561 of the longest book ever written / Lars Bumperpool

He picked up the fork from the sink and noticed remnants of the prior night's eggplant parmesan. A tad of marina and bread crumbs clung to the void between the third and fourth prong. A simple second and a half rinse under the faucet would surely clear the utensil of the stubborn food but he'd recently adopted the principle of being adamant over not washing the dishes before washing the dishes and this was his first opportunity to exercise it. He would not give this fork the pleasure of being subjected to a sink rinse. Not today goddammit.

The fork represented one ninety-sixth of the dinnerware / tableware set they'd received as a wedding gift 7 years ago, a fourth of which consisted of various sized forks. What one couple needed with twenty-four forks he couldn't imagine. They kept twenty of them in the original box, packed somewhere downstairs, waiting to be unleashed in the event of some major entertaining or the birth of sextuplets, whichever came first. Whether or not four forks was truly enough for the two of them was a topic he'd considered bringing up on multiple occasions only to eventually dismiss it because A: there had to be something better to talk about at the time, right? and B: if she happened to agree that the four forks weren't enough he'd find himself in the precarious position of having to find the extra forks buried in the basement somewhere amidst and underneath boxes of empty CD cases and camping gear. That, quite simply, was out of the question. They'd have to make due with only four forks.

Spoons were an entirely different story. For some reason they kept eight spoons, four "big" ones and four "little" ones. A gun placed to the head couldn't guarantee a sound explanation to the purpose of one sized spoon versus the other but if he had to venture a guess he supposed the "big" spoons were meant for hearty soups and the "small" spoons were intended for desserts. At any rate, they used them interchangeably, paying no regard to spoon scoop size. As a result, they often found themselves in the situation of having to use spoons instead of forks - the previous night's eggplant parmesan episode being no exception. His wife used the last clean fork, the fork he currently held over the sink, and he used one of the "big" spoons. So, because either he or his wife (if only he could remember!) made the, at the time seemingly arbitrary, decision to keep only four forks in the primary silverware drawer and keep the rest under what might as well be twelve tons of boxes on a whole different floor of their home, they often ran out of clean forks and he had to display his chivalry time and time again by offering his wife use of the final clean fork and subject himself to eating numerous fork intended meals such as meat loaf, lasagna, salmon, taco salad, and eggplant parmesan with a fucking spoon.

With that he put the dirty, eggplant parm encrusted fork into the plastic bin on the bottom rack and slammed shut the dishwasher.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

50 Grand / Lois Mooreless



I took one of my old posts and used xtranormal.com to turn it into a little movie type deal. I think it worked out all right.

Enjoy.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Guy walking in the marathon / Bryn Lifticket

Oh hi!

I'm that guy walking in the marathon.

'What the hell is his deal?', you're probably wondering.

Ha!

Looks as if I'm either woefully unprepared for these 26.2 miles or I'm some sort of psycho who gets off on having thousands of people cheer for him as he goes on a leisurely but long Sunday stroll. It's tough to gauge because the evasive look on my face falls right in that sweet spot between pure stupidity or pure ambivalence.

I mean, it seems pretty unlikely that I'm already exhausted. The type of people that sign up to run in these things typically prepare in advance, ensuring that they can make it more than 4 miles without having to ease up to a pace where they can comfortably place their hands on their hips.

Perhaps I slightly pulled a hammy in the first mile and refuse to call it quits.

Maybe I'm not even in the marathon and just got caught up in the thing on my way to get some pancake mix at the bodega across the street.

Hmmm. You wonder.

If a guy's going to blow his opportunity to run a marathon by walking the whole time he might as well be bouncing a basketball or wearing a chicken suit or something, right? Or at the very least be wearing a t-shirt promoting some sort of cause like beating breast cancer or the release of the new Insane Clown Posse album.

The fact that I'm wearing cargo shorts doesn't help clear things up either.

It's a bit maddening, isn't it? How the simple site of a kinda pudgy guy nonchalantly walking amongst thousands of determined runners fulfilling life goals can put a damper on what should be an uplifting experience.

I'm sorry about that.

I promise you that wasn't my intention.

I'm just a guy walking in the middle of a goddamned marathon is all.

Thanks for cheering for me.

Sunday, July 11, 2010

Up, and how not to give it / Wes Brushy

No one remembers the moment they gave up on their dream. If you ask them they'll tell you it was a gradual thing, that the desire and drive just sort of petered out over time as other priorities such as money or children or other things often categorized as "life" slowly overtook the part of the brain that had previously held the schematics for the next big invention or business idea or song lyrics or what have you. That's convenient and that's bullshit.

The same way Tom Hanks can look back and pinpoint that audition or meeting or phone call that ultimately cleared the thorny brush blocking the path toward whatever it is he is today, Dom Fanks can look back and zero in on the day he didn't follow up on that connection, or didn't bother to do the math to see if he could afford veterinarian school, or canceled that last gig because what was the point anymore. The key is to be ultra aware of these moments because they are sneaky little bitches. They come disguised as seemingly easy decisions wrapped in common sense. It's easy to spend more time with the family or pay the heating bill as opposed to pursuing something more self fulfilling and selfish. It's easy because common sense tells you it's easy. Well common sense it just that, common.

So be selfish, do the wrong thing, be irresponsible, because the people who don't and who aren't are the same people who forgot the moment they gave up.

Good luck.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Incurred charges of the deceased / Ursula Mandress

Customer Service Representative: Thank you for calling DD billing services. How may I help you today?

Linda: I'm sorry. Who is this?

CSR: Double D billing services. The world leader in discreet charging, packaging, and shipping.

Linda: I'm calling about credit card charges I'm seeing here. Can you tell me what these are for?

CSR: Do you have the account number?

Linda: I'm sorry I don't.

CSR: The account holder's name?

Linda: David Charles.

CSR: And who am I speaking to?

Linda: This is Linda Charles, David's wife.

CSR: OK Mrs. Charles. I'm afraid I can't give you any account information over the phone. That can only be given to the account holder, David Charles.

Linda: Unfortunately that's not possible. I can provide you with any personal information of his - like credit card number, billing address, social security number. . .

CSR: I'm sorry but it's company policy that I can only provide account information to the account holder himself.

Linda: Can I please just cancel the account then?

CSR: Only David Charles can do that.

Linda: David Charles is dead. He died last month. In an attempt to move on in life I'm trying to get our family's financial affairs in order. I came across mysterious monthly charges on my late husband's credit card statements. I'm calling you to clarify what these charges are for and decide if they are warranted and worth continuing. Since you are refusing to do so I'd like to cancel the account all together seeing as I don't know what it's even for.

CSR: Please hold.

[Phil Collin's 'Sussudio' plays for 1 minute 47 seconds]

Presumed Manager of some sort: Double D Billing, the world leader in discreet billing, packaging, and shipping. How may I help you?

Linda: Hello. My husband, David Charles, has an account with you guys that's been incurring monthly charges on his credit card. I need to either be notified what these charges are for or cancel the account.

PMOSS: I see. And is Mr. Charles available to confirm this request?

Linda: No. He is dead.

[Pause]

PMOSS: My condolences. Do you know the password to the account?

Linda: I don't.

PMOSS: I'm going to ask you a series of questions that David Charles provided answers for in the event of a forgotten password.

Linda: This is absurd. Go ahead.

PMOSS: City of birth?

Linda: Charleston

PMOSS: Mother's maiden name?

Linda: Flinch

PMOSS: Jailbait or Milfs?

Linda: Excuse me?

PMOSS: Do you prefer jailbait or milfs?

Linda: I don't even know what that means.

PMOSS: It was a question for your husband. Did he prefer underage girls or sexually attractive mothers?

Linda: What are you implying?

PMOSS: It's just a question I need you to answer to gain access to the account.

Linda: Young girls I guess.

PMOSS: I'm sorry, that's incorrect. David Charles preferred Milfs.

Linda: What kind of place is this? I demand you cancel the account now! I'm sure the better business bureau would like to hear about the questions you are asking a recent widow about her husband.

PMOSS: Please hold.

[REM's 'Everybody Hurts' plays for 1 minute 18 seconds]

PMOSS: Hello Mrs. Charles. Due to the extenuating circumstances surrounding the account we're going to make an exception and allow you to cancel.

Linda: Thank you.

PMOSS: OK I'm canceling the account now. . . I see here that you've been a loyal customer for several years. We'd like to offer you a one time offer off unlimited access to all of our sites for only $7.99 per month.

Linda: And what sites are those?

PMOSS: Unlimited access to all our award winning sites such as Public Rim Jobs, Upskirt Central, Hairy Ballz, Aged to Purrfucktion, & Dorothy's Secret Penis.

Linda: Absolutely not!

PMOSS: We'll throw in the live video bathroom cam chat for free. I see that's a feature you've enjoyed in the past.

Linda: [sobbing]

PMOSS: I'll simply proceed with the cancelation then. One last thing. Your custom designed, rubber vagina / asshole combo molded from Cynthia Poke's Plaster of Paris crotch dip was returned to our shipping dock yesterday as no one signed for it at the provided shipping address, which I assume was your late husband's place of business. Seeing as he's dead and no longer employed there I just wanted to confirm that we have a valid alternate shipping address.

[Linda hangs up]

Sunday, July 4, 2010

The reach ratio / Wilbur Fernbot

The best thing about time, distance, amounts, and really any unit of measure is the brief interval between 1/3 and 1/2. Because if you think about it, 1/3 isn't very much. I mean if you take any whole entire thing, say a foot or a song or an elephant, and chop it into 3 equal pieces and then consider just one of those pieces your really not talking about a lot in the grand scheme of things. I mean that's something anybody can handle. 1/3. Even the most daunting of entities such as demons or torture or helping a friend move, when broken into thirds, suddenly seem quite manageable.

And 1/2 is the real milestone if you think about it. That's what you're shooting for. Once you hit that halfway point it's all gravy from there. Once you hit .5 all you need to do is add another millimeter, another ounce, another hundredth of a second, another .00001 of anything and all the sudden you're OVER half way through/done/complete/there and that's something special. In that precise moment the future becomes easier than the past. The proverbial scale has tipped in your favor.

The difference between 1/3 and 1/2 is only 1/6. 0.166666 repeating. That's nothing! You just did 1/6 of something reading this sentence. So if we've established that 1/3 of anything isn't anything to fret over and 1/2 of something is the ultimate threshold one needs to attain, and 1/6 (the difference between the two) is barely more than zero then any task or aspiration set before you is magically within reach.

I call it the Reach Ratio.