Birds On a Tether

If we are all birds on a tether, what pole
Could grow
With boughes of leaves leading forever through
Tomorrow
Hopes for you dream on a feather of a blue
Sky hue
That our lines might cross, tie one another and
Bring me to you.

Untitled

What pathway leads to that ancient spring
Where life ascends from the deep?
What spring can sing most anything
Of life and bring us to sleep?

What herb can cure a broken man
Whose eyes are fixed on the street?
What broken man could mend his land
And sow eternal peace?

I was trolling the internets and found a site with a number of great pictures of Stop Signs that have been “Hacked”–that is, vandalized. To be quite frank, I see myself doing something like this (or rearranging church billboard signs) in the near future. Besides, anything involving MC Hammer is amazing. Enjoy

If you don’t know who says this next quote, I will fight you.

I’m sure he received many elf campaign contributions, as well.

(Christmas card by Southern Strategy Group.)

Often accidentally associated with sex.

Yes, tennis balls. Those fuzzy little green things are like victims in a domestic violence case: they get smacked around a lot by a muscular person brandishing a long stick, lose their hair from these beatings and repeated stress, and are usually kept in dark, damp places.

Girls in skirts and tight pants are always sticking tennis balls all up in their junk, but where do they go? Are there special pouches built in to females like kangaroos? Why don’t I get one?

Not fair. Are there secret compartments da Vinci Code style? What is it???

I think Dave Matthews was on to something in his song, “Crash,” when he commands, “Hike up your skirt a little more / And show your world to me.” He isn’t making phallic references–he just wants to know where all the tennis balls at.

Whot all seen the teenis balls say yeah!!

I suppose this mystery shall endure, like the pyramids, for millenia. Until the mystery of the disappearing tennis balls is solved, I guess all we can do is pack as many of them in as we can and hope for the best.

It was a cloudy, rainy, grey day; one of those days where suicide rates across the world are up because it is just so depressing; one of those days where Glenn Beck still has a job; one of those days where a warm cup of cocoa, a Michael Caine flick, and a lover are desired over all else (but in that order). It also didn’t help that it was the beginning of the work/school week.

Oddly enough, I found myself in a particularly good mood. Maybe I like being unhappy, but then wouldn’t that make me happy?–but then if I was happy I would want to be unhappy but that would just make me happy again annnd I think I just divided by 0.

As I was saying, I was a in a particularly good and productive mood. So amidst doing errands between classes, I made a stop at my university bookstore, which happens to be owned and operated by Barnes and Noble. I needed one book but left with two: Plato’s Republic and Dan Brown’s new JESUS HAD KIDZ book, The Lost Symbol.

Nowadays, parental accompaniment required. Thanks Catholic priests.

'Nuff said.

What kind of question is that? She then proceeds to show the other cashiers, and they all giggle in their red “How can I help you?” work shirts, as well. Remember that good mood I was in? Yeah, destroyed. I was crushed not under the weight of this obese girl’s body but by this obese girl’s deprecating judgement on a hairstyle similar to one I used to have. It was like I was inside a fucking giggle factory, and I was the steam powering the creation of giggles. Willy Wonka would have been proud.

Thank Plato that we live in a democratic republic and not a democracy, for if we lived in a democracy, the majority of the people in that store would have voted that I was a loser. Ruined my day.

Fuck you Barnes and Noble.

I opened up the drawer beneath the stove, exhumed the frying pan, and was at a loss to describe the 3 or 4 banana shaped black things that were each a little bigger than a grain of rice. After washing them down the sink, I began to cook. When I actually began to regain full consciousness in my post-somnambulatory state, I noticed these little black bananas all over my floor and countertops.

“Wtf is this shit?” I queried.

It turns out that they were, in fact, not little black bananas that must have spawned from a little black banana tree in my kitchen. I was right in my initial observation: it was shit. To specify, rat shit.

He's cute and cuddly but shits little black bananas.

Let’s recap on what has happened: I woke up, found rat shit in my pan, dumped this into the sink, then proceeded to cook on it, possibly reciting the tune “Apples and Banaynays” by this creeper:

Soon to be retitled: "Pee Wee Herman Hits Puberty"

The exTERMINATOR showed up today and is going to go “nucular” on our place. Looks like we’re expanding nuclear proliferation to the Pearce/Hiott/Goodman household. Einstein would be proud.

Dear rats,
I would like to inform you…

Colombian, Cuban... whatever.

So, after my Shakespeare exam today, I decided to drop off a Battle of the Bands application form and get some lunch. I ordered–and soon feasted upon–a chicken salad + grape concoction, complete with wild rice soup and a small coffee. For the past two weeks I’ve had a vexing cough, and in true Michael Moore form, was coughing throughout my meal without a prayer of a doctor fixing me, for I’m sure my insurance company would nullify my insurance because I had forgotten to mention that I scabbed my knee when I was three.

It was during one of these coughing fits that I had the brilliant idea of putting scalding hot coffee in my mouth. Putting liquid fire in my mouth was the first poor choice. What didn’t help was my body expelling air at ~100mph. Meanwhile, a cafeteria worker sat down across from me to take her break (there were no more booths).

What would you do in this situation? Spew your coffee and germs all over this poor woman? Spew it all over your delicious food? Turn your head to one side? Hard decision, and yet I did none of these. I decided to close my mouth.

In an instant, scalding hot coffee propelled itself into my sinuses and out my nose, pepper spraying everything in front of me.

Probably made by this guy.

When this occurred, I knew what it was like to have no control over my nasal cavity–you coke addicts out there know what I’m talking about. I bled coffee. However embarrassing this may be, I believe I have found the culprit; those responsible. It seems that the Colombians are no longer satisfied with dominating our nostrils with cocaine and our pallets with fine brew; they have to do it all. Bastards. The next big thing to flood our streets will be cocaine-flavoured coffee which cannot be snorted but consumed in the aforementioned reverse manner. It’s like that Hannah Montana song: it’s the “Best of Both Worlds.”

It is, isn't it?

And in no way was any of this my fault.