On the Rocks

Let me be honest with you. Relationships are something that men and women came up with to make themselves less lonely and that God decided to use in order to continue our species on this earth. Now just because I tell you that God and man have gone and killed two birds with one stone doesn’t necessarily mean that I justify the means. Rocks can be a risky business.

There are so many different kinds of rock out there. For instance there’s granite, limestone, some more wealthy rocks like the stuff they get ore out of, and precious stones. Everyone wants to kill their birds with a diamond. The risky part is that sometimes you can’t really tell if it’s a diamond until you’ve rubbed at it for a while, gotten all the blemishes away to see the color. Some of them crumble upon first rub, revealing a dirty lump of coal. Lumps of coal just aren’t ideal bird killing weapons. They are soft, leave your hands blackened and never put the toilet seat down. Do not waste your time with a lump of coal.

Another kind of rock would be sediment. This rock has been built up of different layers of earth and fossils over a span of many, many years. If you are willing to put up with all the fossils of other attempted rock throwers then this rock might be pretty decent for knocking some avians out of a tree. You can see the pattern that the years have worn onto this rock and so you know that, to an extent, it is dependable. Of course they can always surprise you have some kind of midlife crisis. That would be the drawback of throwing a sedimentary rock.

Now although everyone is out to get themselves a precious stone like a diamond or an emerald, I should warn you that these rocks aren’t always useful either. The small, perfect ones are no good for killing birds. They are expensive and insignificant, and will cost you far more than they’re really worth. Plus you’ve no indication of where they’ve been. Unless you’ve an air rifle to fire it out of, you’re unlikely to kill anything. You could get lucky, I suppose, if the birds were to graciously line themselves up just right. But it’s better to look for bigger, less perfect precious stones.

Of course I’ll not guarantee that you won’t find the perfect stone for you. You might find something hefty, tough and aerodynamic. Even these, on occasion, will defect though. I’m afraid that while a large percent of rock throwers manage to kill the offspring bird, many only manage to stun the loneliness bird.

Some people get stuck chucking rock after rock at the nefarious loneliness bird until they drop dead of age. Hail the lucky few that get their birds on the first try. May they die early and leave their rocks for someone else to chuck.

Veggie Vengeance

I awake in a dark room filled with others just like me. What happened?

The last thing I remember I was with my family, in our home. We were relaxing and talking when suddenly something CRASHED through the window and grabbed my parents. And then it came back for me.

It stole me away from my home. My struggles had meant nothing to it; it was too powerful to notice. Suddenly I was lifted up in the air, and I felt like it was probing me with a large glass screen. I screamed, it tossed me down into a pit. I don't remember hitting the ground.

And now I was here. I must be the youngest one here. Everyone else is fully grown. I'm nearly there, but not quite. Then it hits me. They must have left all of my little brothers and sisters alone. They'd taken me, they'd taken my parents, and left the little ones to make it on their own. I burn with rage.

I start looking for my parents. There must be dozens of people in here. Some are hurt, bruised and beaten. They too must have fought back.

I find my parents. Father is hurt badly. He needs medical attention. Mother is weeping inconsolably. I tell her I'll be back, I'm going to try to find out what's happening. She nods but doesn't stop crying.

Through the crowded room I wander, asking here and there if anyone knows what's happening. No one does.

Finally I come across an elderly fellow. We have so few. I never thought about it before, but when I saw him I drew back in surprise to see one of such age. I'm not used to it. He grimly tells me how he's been avoiding this all of his life. His parents were taken, and then his older siblings.

He grew afraid and lived alone, hidden. And so he avoided being taken, but watched on as every new generation came of age and then was harvested, stolen away, never seen again.

But he knew what was happening. He knew because one day the creatures passed by carrying these same horrible rooms as we were in now. One adolescent clung unnoticed to the side of the structure, and tumbled down to the ground when the creatures passed near to the old man.

He'd asked the adolescent what happened. The poor kid barely managed to say before he died from the beating he'd taken.

"They crush us," the old man said. "They crush us up and squeeze out all of our blood, and then they drink it."

I think he saw the disbelief in my eyes.

"It's true! He told me of terrible, noisy machines, where the others were pushed in alive, and came out in shreds and blood."

I back away and run back to my parents. I won't believe this. It cannot be true. No being, no matter how horrible, could do that to another. What's the point? There IS no point.

I don't have time to tell my parents the elder's preposterous tale.

The room is inverted and we're all dumped onto a flat surface. And there are machines here. Horrible, humming machines.

They grasp the first of us and push them, screaming, shouting, fighting, into the machines. There's a horrible grinding sound. In an empty basin blood starts to pool. I see shreds of body parts falling out of the other end of the machine.

And then it's too late. I'm lifted and heading for the machines, and screaming like the others.

"WHY!? What's WRONG with you? You don't know what you're DOING! STOP! PLEASE! STO-"

*In honor of those vegetables that give their life's blood to make sure those of us that don't like vegetables get our daily serving*

the non-conformist instruments

You KNOW what I'm talking about.

Ukuleles. Accordions. Bagpipes. Kazoos. Pan flutes. Bongos.

Those instruments which are vaguely cutesy when being played on a street corner by a particularly charismatic bum. But when people try to use them in bands... WELL. THEN they get labeled as odd and non-conformist.

Its sort of ironic. Those that actually know how to play these instruments can be put into two polar opposite categories. Freaks/geeks and trendy/eccentrics. The placement doesn't even depend on their skill with the instrument!!! It's all about the social skillz.

If a guy with a kazoo's got mad social skillz, fool, then he can pick up girls with it. He is a T/E. However the awkward guy with glasses that stands in the school's faculty parking lot during lunch playing his bagpipes? No dice. That's an F/G.

Of course that makes ya wonder where heavy metal bands that employ bagpipes land. I'd of course like to point out their social skills, as well as their success rate. I rest my case.

So whilst my buddy picks up babes with his ukulele I'm gonna go and scare off some men with my accordion.

Let's talk about bigfoot!!

I have faith.

Also, I've read too many books and viewed too many photos from the archives of the internets to NOT believe. (Also, I really WANT to believe. This helps to complete the illusion.)

Bigfoot. Sasquatch. Yeti. Chewbacca. They EXIST!! There have been eyewitness accounts from hicks living in trailers, isolated in the wilderness. Reports of loud, inhuman screams heard by couples with bad marriages living in the woods! Tales of city slickers with not even the slightest idea what they're doing getting EATEN in the grand canyon!!

They've even seen him on mars. MARS!!



MmmmHM. And you thought sasquatch was the man BEFORE. WELL. He wasn't. He was the sasquatch.

Then of course there's the classic video of the chick sasquatch that those famous guys filmed!! I mean, come ON! WHY would they give her, er....... lady lumps....... if it was a fake? Hm? HMMM? They were grown men! Of course they wouldn't be as immature as to..... Oh. Oh geez.

H-h-how could I have been so naive? I just... I wasn't expecting it! I TRUSTED them! But it was all a cruel prank worthy of a couple of drunken college drop-outs.

MEN ruined BIGFOOT! How COULD YOU!? You MONSTERS!! Men ruin EVERYTHING with their sick, cruel, immature JOKES! DARN YOU AND YOUR BUSTY APE SUITS TO HECK!!!!!

(Bigfoot? I still believe. Those jerks just smeared your reputation. It’s okay. We still love you. But a few good sightings might help your rep… jus’ sayin.)

*disclaimer: Not ALL men ruin everything. Just half of them. And not EVERYTHING, per say....

Clicky pens

Pens with caps are complete nonsense. Who likes having to pull caps on and off all day? And the types of pens that come with caps are generally cheap little things that never write like they should.

Do pens even NEED caps? What is their purpose? Do they REALLY keep the pen from drying out, or is that just their gimmic for selling you an extra hunk of useless plastic? Or perhaps the pen cap is, rather than a carefully designed chunk of plastic made to be lost, actually a bi-product of the pen creation process, and it just coincidentally fit right on top of the pen, so they figured rather than throw em away, why not make them OUR problem instead?

Anyway, that's not the point. Clicky pens OWN.

And fountain pens? Okay, they're sleek and shiny, cap'n, and they write really pretty, but they're messy, their ink tastes TERRIBLE (don't ask how I know) and you have to refill halfway through each page! NONSENSE I TELL YOU!!

And so, back to the point, clicky pens are the GODS of the pen world. Yes, fountain pen may seem like a king, and cheap plastic capped pens may seem... erm... really... REALLY... uhhh... cheap? But clicky pens are the bureaucrats of writing utensil land!! Professional, full of ink and really annoying!!

Among other things, who doesn't feel important when they pull out their shiny clicky pen and smartly press down on the clicker with their thumb to produce a sharp click? Mhm. It says respect my pen or get smacked around and force fed a bottle of your crappy fountain pen ink.

*click click*

(also, in a tight spot it sounds like you're cocking the trigger on a very tiny shot gun (try finding a megaphone to make it louder and actually look like you're carrying a (alien ray) gun)) *BAM said the lady* check those nested parenthesis.

*click*

Now don't get me STARTED on highlighters.