A Nice Wasted Night.

Well, I’ve still been busy lately, but today was pretty relaxing. My first class of the day was cancelled, so I was able to get myself seven and a half hours of sleep, which is nice for a change. And furthermore, I didn’t do any schoolwork after school either, just taking a night to waste. I may regret that over the next couple weeks, but screw it, right?

I had to write a seven sentence story for a class this week. So here’s that:

Gary Ochterlony was an older man, the oldest who worked at the library. He was quiet, worked diligently, and on his lunch breaks liked to walk around the outside of the library. One day, on his way out, he caught a whiff of smoke and, worried that there might be a fire, he sniffed and searched, soon realizing it was coming from behind a bulletin board on a nearby wall. The board, he discovered, swung open easily enough, and behind it was a tiny model of a city, built into the wall, with one of its buildings on fire. Gary leaned close to the tiny fire, licked his thumb, and pressed it against the building, extinguishing the flame. Only then did he notice the tiny wail of tiny sirens, and the confused murmurs of tiny people moving about the roads in what, Gary now realized, was no ordinary model city. Slowly closing the board again, Gary spent the weekend assume he’d imagining the event, but when he got back to work and checked, the city was still there, even the burnt building being rebuilt, now with an addition: a gold-plated statue of Gary’s thumb.

Blintler’s Requiem

Here’s a story:

Theodore Blintler didn’t even know he was being followed by robots. Sure, he heard a strange buzzing now and then, or the sound of clinking metal, but he had pretty bad eyesight, so he never noticed the seven robots that were about ten feet behind him everywhere he went. Theodore Blintler worked in a horse raincoat factory as a horse raincoat designer. Theodore had designed the most popular, best-selling horse raincoat of the last three decades. Theodoe was kind of famous in the horse raincoat industry. This is why the robots were following him. The owners of a failing cow raincoat factory had somehow come up with the money to build seven robots and had them follow Theodore Blintler around, hoping to copy his success for themselves. This all came to a head one day when Theodore was eating a terrible, terrible lunch in a diner across the street from the horse raincoat factory. The robots had been leaning against the door, pressing their ears against it, straining to hear any animal raincoat-related mutterings Theordore might emit, when the door collapsed inward and all seven of the robots tumbled into the diner with a crash. Theodore, startled by the noise, choked on a bit of burnt egg and died. The robots were embarassed and the cow raincoat factory went out of business. Nobody would ever know, but Theodore had been planning a shooting spree at his office with intent to kill dozens. Unfortunately, one of the people Theodore would have killed was a serial murderer who went on to kill dozens of other people. One of the victims of the serial killer had been building a bomb that he planned to blow up a school. The moral? Someone get some raincoats for the cows!

Anyway, there’s a story. Memorize it and tell it to your children.

In other news, I got an A-minus on a History essay and an A on a English essay this week. That is pretty different from the kind of marks I was getting at my previous attempt at school. This proves that procrastination is not gonna hurt me because, man, I been procratinatin’ all the live-long day with these essays. And now I don’t have to stop procrastinatin’! Hooray!

The Punching of the Arachnids

Joanne kept punching the giant spiders, but they just kept coming. Each one more gianter than the last except the seventeenth on, which was smaller than the one proceeding it by at least three feet. By the time the ninety-sixth giant spider was there Joanne had to look way up because it was over thirty feet tall. “It’s gonna be one of those days,” said Joanne, referring to how this was the seventh time she’d had to spend a day punching a horde of giant things. It was actually the first time it was giant spiders, though she didn’t clarify that to the onlookers. She’d punched giant rats, giant ants, giant lobsters. She was confident the giant spiders could be lumped into the same category without anyone questioning it. So Joanne spent another day punching giant things. When all the spiders had received the necessary amount of punching, she dusted off her hands and said “The things I do for money,” referring to how punching hordes of giant things was outside the normal bounds of what one was expected to do in her line of work. Joanne works as a museum tour guide. Anyway, she got paid and took her kids out to a pizza place for supper.

The End.

I guess, since I don’t really have any other news to speak of, I’ve got to talk about my finger again.

The healing is going well as far as I can tell. Yesterday I noticed that my body was starting to keep things, like my wallet and sunglasses or whatever, in my right coat pocket again without this resulting in my finger gong “Hey, don’t do that! I’m broken over here!” so I consider that progress. Pretty soon I will be back to my usual standard of things I do with that hand (writing, drawing, tying my effing shoes) and I will like that. I guess it will take a little longer for things specific to my middle finger, but I don’t know that many things I do with just that finger. I can’t really snap my fingers without it, I guess. Also… uh… Flipping people off… I guess?… and… uh… fingerbanging? … Um.

Anyway, I’ll try to shut up about my finger until the final checkup now.

This one… is for the ladies.

So, it is International Women’s Day, the day when we are all encouraged to find a special gal and buy her chocolates and pretty bows for her hair. That’ll shut ’em up, right?

Wait, I’ve just received word that I completely misunderstand what International Women’s Day is about and I am, in fact, a horrible person. Go figure. Well, as I’ve said before I’m a nation with no female population*, so it can’t be that surprising that I don’t know what the people of Internation do. What excuse does the Republican party use?

Anyway, why not throw out a little story with a positive female role model, PDR? Okay PDR:

Sally Titan saw the bank robbers get into their van and start speeding away. “Idiots,” she said to herself. “Now I’m going to be late for my tutoring session with Mrs. O’Malley’s kids because I have to deal with this.” With that, the muscular hero leapt across the street, bounded off the wall of the bank, and propelled herself down the street after the van. Civilians saw her streaking through the air toward the getaway vehicle, but they would never believe their own eyes. Sally kept her existence as secret as she could because she wasn’t in it for the fame. Overtaking the van, she grabbed the roof and used her momentum to slam it downward, stopping it. She had the criminals tied to a telephone pole before the police even made it to the scene. The crooks couldn’t describe what had happened, but they also couldn’t shake the blame for the heist, so they all went to prison. And Sally made it to the tutoring session on time after all.

There. Happy ending and everything. That makes up for what I said about bows, right?

*Some would say that my vigilant separation of PDR and women is my most important contribution to Womankind. You’re welcome everybody.

Skeet’s Asteroid

Okay, so, the first SecGov page to be put up in the new fashion is up there. For now I’m thinking that I’ll be scheduling SecGovs to go up on Tuesdays and Thursdays and then we’ll see how that works. Still a work in progress all this, but we’re doing our best. Or at least our not worst.

Anyway, here’s a story:

Dr. Skeet Bonzo studied asteroids. But one day, through no fault of his own, just pure dumb chance, one of the asteroids he studied crashed into Skeet’s car. Skeet, who had been in an appliance store when the car had been destroyed, recognized the asteroid even after the impact. “Why, that’s BF2990P” he exclaimed as saw the wreckage. And then he realized something that sent a shiver down his spine: That asteroid’s designation was the same as the license plate number of the car it had just destroyed. “I never noticed that one of the asteroids had the same number as my license plate because I dealt with so many asteroids,” he said to some kid who had wandered to see the damage up but didn’t actually care what Skeet had to say. Skeet, for a moment, was so amazed by the coincidence that he was dumbstuck. “The odds of that asteroid hitting that car were astronomical! I can’t believe that it happened!” but Skeet fought off thoughts he considered unscientific by rationalizing it, noting that the asteroid’s designation existed only as a thing given to it by the scientists, and was not an actual property of the asteroid itself. And besides, given the vast amount of time for coincidences to occur in, they are more likely to. Anyway, because his car had been crushed, Skeet had to walk home carrying the microwave he had just bought. On the way he was mugged and shot. The mugger ran away and, as he lay dying, Skeet happened to notice that the serial number on the microwave was “BF2990P”. With that, Skeet said “Well, that’s just stupid. I’m glad to be getting out of here” and died. Skeet’s fellow scientists decided to pay their respects to Skeet by naming an asteroid after him. A year later that very asteroid came crashing to Earth, hitting an apartment building and destroying one apartment. What apartment? Specifically apartment number BF2990P. And the resident of that apartment who was killed at that time? The very criminal who had killed Skeet and who, by sheer coincidence alone had also been named Skeet Bonzo. Suffice it to say, when they met up as ghosts they all had a good laugh.

Anyway, that’s it for today. I gotta go. In the meantime, I wonder what would be involved, legally, in arranging to get my skull encased in amber when I’m dead…