Monday, November 28, 2011

First Year Grab-Bag

     Well, here we are. We've come a long way in our year here. Okay, so it's not actually a year until Dec. 4th, but my roommate is using the TV so I can't play Skyrim, and I don't know if I'll be bored enough to write this then. So here we are, like I said. 9.3k views later. That's roughly 25 and a half people per day that stub their toe onto this website just searching for UV Blue pictures or MEGAN FOX TOPLESS (here's to hoping that's another 300 views). The highest viewed post, FYI, is this one about high school movies I put almost absolutely no thought into. Sorry about that bad impression.

This blog's view count is... Well, if you get it,
you've already gotten the joke.
     So I thought to myself, "How should I celebrate this milestone that nobody, especially my attention span, thought I was going to be able to reach?" Perhaps a heartfelt bout of thanks for the quasi-legitimate semi-read outlet for my inane writings? No, of course not. Instead, several things that, smashed together, make up an entry of satisfactory length. That's the way Jesus would do it.

Life's Great Questions
     Yes, I know I already posted something similar to this, but this is more of a philosophical exercise instead of the life-skills my questions previously instilled. So, I'm welcome to debate, whether over text, email, screaming my name three times to a mirror so that I appear, heartfelt love letters, a rock to my window (please, no more bricks), or in the comments section down beneath this entry. Also, I'm not answering these for you. It's up to each man and woman to come up with their own answers.

1. When shuffling past someone in a row of chairs, are you supposed to show your butt or your crotch?
2. If someone holds both of the doors in a two door entryway open, do you say thanks both times, or just the first? Or, perhaps, just the second?
3. How many times does your roommate have to moan before it's okay to wake him up?
4. Just when should I stop? How will I know if I've got enough?
5. What language do deaf people think in? What do blind people dream about?
6. Magnets, how do they work?
7. Why do the smartest people say the dumbest things, like "That's the way Jesus would do it"?
8. If society wanted to, we could make sweat pants formal attire. What I'm asking is, why don't we do that right now, right away?
9. Why aren't you following me on Twitter?
10. Isn't the most dangerous thing about questing for the meaning of life what happens when we find it? Ooh that one's serious! Look out!
11. Which Journey song is better: Don't Stop Believin'? or Separate Ways?

Funnily enough, I wrote those questions during Philosophy instead of actually responding to the real questions as often as I could have. I also wrote these two stories.
Clownin' Around
     Bongo sighed as he looked in the mirror. His wrinkles were becoming so pronounced that his make up would miss some crevasses around his eyes and his cheeks.
     "Buck up," said Samara, from behind him. As Bongo looked her in the eyes using the lighted mirror in front of him, he could see her sad smile as she held the sheets up to her shoulders. It's not as if Samara was unhappy, at least not that she realized, but life had just been hard on her.
     "Oh, I"m fine," Bongo said, "I'm just getting too old for all this." He had been in the circus for thirty of his forty five years. While most of the people his age were buying minivans or SUVs, he was being cramped up with 10 others in a coupe at noon, four, and eight o'clock daily.
     "You're not getting old," Samara spoke up again, "You're just getting more mature."
     Bongo smiled at the woman half his age's attempt to cheer him up, even if it fell short. "Mature," Bong said, honking his fake nose as he put it on his face. "I'm aging like a fine wine, you're saying."
      "Maybe like a vodka. No offense, but you seem like you come from potatoes instead of grapes." This was Sir Smelly Bottom, whose shoes squeaked as he crossed the doorstep into Bongo's dressing room. Samara blushed and shimmied lower into the bed.
     "Oh, don't be embarrassed," Sir Smelly Bottom said, flicking his hand towards the bed. He turned to look back at Bongo, and the inflated seat of his pants spilled a pot of flowers off of the nearby stool they were resting on. Bongo smiled. This kid was a natural. Although he didn't much care for Sir Smelly Bottom's lack of knocking. Samara still had the sheets pulled all the way to her beard.
     Sir Smelly Bottom spoke up again. "It's time to go to work," he said. "Put your clothes on, Samara.
     "And like I said, people already knew."
      With that, he squeaked his way out, and the door rebounded off of his hiney, causing a loud quacking noise.
      Samara lithely stepped out of bed and smiled her sad smile at Bongo, still holding the sheets around her. Even though their affair had been going on for the better part of two months, she still seemed embarrassed to be fully naked in front of him. "I guess the secret's out," she said, "Hopefully the passion doesn't go with the danger."
     Bongo stood up and held Samara tightly. His large bowtie tucked neatly under her fuzzy chin as she nestled against him. "Of course it won't," Bongo said. He didn't know if he was telling the truth, and thankfully his painted smile hid his true feelings. Bongo had been in the business long enough to tell that once the cat was out of the bag, it never had as much fun again.
     Samara stepped away and turned her back to get into her dress. "I'll see you out there."
     Bongo honked his horn gently and stepped out to the hallway, walking towards the light that was the main show floor. 
     Bongo popped his back. "I'm getting too old for this shit," he said, right as the spot light lit up the area in front of his hallway. Honking his horn twice, he guffawed and took a running cartwheel into the rest of his life.

A Quick Poem Interlude
Dylan has a smelly butt.
     He has a poopy face.
           I can never figure out what
                 Makes him this stupid way.

His glasses are so silly, dumb
      It makes me shake my fists
            I grip my hands till they're numb.
                   And my stomach's getting cysts.

I'm being too hard on you.
     I shouldn't be so mean.
           Don't worry, you're my boo.
                So nice and soft, yet lean.

A Christmas Story
     The children, Haley and Craig, bounded down the stairs, yelling. Whether it was the loud, clunking footfalls on the steps or the children shouting that woke Luke up, he wasn't quite sure. He looked at the alarm clock. 6:37. Luke's head collapsed back into his pillow, and he continued to lay in the bed he and his wife shared. However, the children's joy showed no sign of abating, and Luke had to swing his feet out of the bed with a heavy sigh.
     Following the path his young children had taken down the stairs, Luke yawned. He missed the days when the kids, as babies, had to be shown how to open presents, and enjoyed the paper more than whatever was wrapped inside. Luke's wife, Amy, followed behind him in a bathrobe. When she reached the end of the stairs, she made sure the kids hadn't started opening their presents, and began cooking breakfast. Luke opened a closet door, and pulled out his handheld video camera.
      Later, situated around the tree in the living room, Luke allowed Haley and Craig to open their presents. Filming, Luke smiled behind his camera and watched his children's joy. After Haley had gotten her sweater and Craig his G.I. Joes, Luke turned the camera on his wife. She held a small, rectangular box, wrapped as well as Luke could manage, complete with a hastily-tied bow. Opening it revealed an expensive, beautiful diamond necklace.
     Amy turned to look at her husband. "Oh Luke. It's wonderful. I love-"
     Luke cut her off, "Shhh. What is this, the Office? Don't talk into the camera. You're ruining the shot. Now take the camera, and we'll get my reaction to you opening the gift. Craig, watch that boom in the shot. We'll fix this in editing."

Okay that's all I have for this stupid post. Wait, one more thing. What's up with airline food? It's like "Where's the other half of my soda?" I mean, right? Okay, now that's it. But in all seriousness, thank you, you two, for actually reading this and occasionally complimenting me. I would probably still write all this in journals or something and forget about it completely. You all give me the drive to improve my hobbies and actually occasionally feel like I'm teaching strangers on the internet something. It's my life goal. And to that Serbian guy that commented on my post, I thought it was clear I was kidding. I did an entire, factual report on Serbia for World Geography class. I'll email it to you sometime. *Secret Serbian Handshake*

But for realz ya'll, thank you.

Probably should have written about the Bill of Rights by now,
Mick Dickinson

P.S. This GIF

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