Worth Consideration

I wish the world was a blog. I would eat my lunch, and the ground beneath my chair beneath me would contain some words about my lunch-eating experience. I would cross the street, and in my footsteps there would be letters in a large and shapely font that said, "FOOT." I would climb a tree, and the tree woud suddenly be full of posts about how much fun it is to climb a tree, and how it's especially adventurous when I pretend I'm a daredevil, and how I should really wear a helmet in case I fell. After all that, I would go home for relief from the world-blog and fall asleep to calming posts about lullabies and white noise.

At this point, me not posting on this blog has become simply rebellious.

But I think I've sowed my wild oats.

Fact of the day:
Thailand means "land of the free."

If Grass Could Talk

Two blades of grass stand beside each other in a farm field among many other blades of grass. Everything is quiet.

"Do you ever really take the time to look at people?"
"No. I don't have eyes."
"You know what I mean."
"No I don't. I don't have a brain."
"Just shut up and listen to me."
"I can't. I don't have a mouth."

Everything is quiet again.

Now, if grass could stop being so damned literal and have a real conversation.

"Do you ever really take the time to look at people?"
"I don't like to look up. Makes me dizzy."
"But you've noticed their arms, right?"
"Only when they grabbed Jimmy."
"Yeah. That was a sad day."
"I miss Jimmy."
"Me too. But anyway, have you ever wondered why we don't have arms?"
"Not really. I've never wanted to pick anything up."
"Really?"
"Yep."
"I wanna pick stuff up all the time."
"Well...tough luck."

Happy Birthday, Hitler!

A Play in Two Acts

Act I
A street in Berlin

HEINRICH: Did you know it's Hitler's birthday today?
RUDOLF: Yes I did, in fact.
HEINRICH: I wonder why we don't do anything to celebrate.
RUDOLF: Celebrating Hitler's birthday? Are you insane?
HEINRICH: Yes I am!

Brief dance number

HEINRICH: Ah, dancing.
RUDOLF: It truly is the nectar of the Gods.
HEINRICH: This is a good way to celebrate, no?
RUDOLF: Dancing?
HEINRICH: Yes. Hitler would have outlawed dancing.
RUDOLF: Really?
HEINRICH: I don't know.
RUDOLF: Then why did you say that?
HEINRICH: I like to make things up.
RUDOLF: You shouldn't do that to history.
HEINRICH: Do I look like a historian to you, Rudolf?
RUDOLF: Historians don't really have a distinctive look.


Act II
Israel

METHUZELAH: Thank God Hitler's dead.
ZECHARAIAH: Not soon enough.
METHUZELAH: This heat is killing me.
ZECHARAIAH: That's not funny.
METHUZELAH: What? What's not funny?
ZECHARAIAH: Forget it.
METHUZELAH: Oy, the heat.
ZECHARAIAH: But this is the promised land.
METHUZELAH: And look what it does to my equilibrium.
ZECHARAIAH: Wait, did you know it was Hitler's birthday today?
METHUZELAH: Did you say it's Mitzah's birthday?
ZECHARAIAH: Nevermind.

Further down the road

NEVA: It's Mitzah's birthday today.
GOLDA: Are you having a party for her?
NEVA: No, she lives in America.
GOLDA: Good for her.
NEVA: Yes. It's much too hot here.
GOLDA: Let's go swimming.
NEVA: Hooray!

O Yay Thee Ballgame

We attended the ballgame. It was a game made of balls, and cooked sausages, filled with tomato-flavored factory induced sauce, chopped pickles, diced onions, and mustard. Oh yes, there was mustard. And two out of three legends were there.

Beach balls were tossed into the artifical wind. Cellular phones were spoken into. Non-disabled people sat in the disabled section. (Maybe they were disabled, though...the mental kind of disablement, and the mental disablement that one could easily be cured for were one not a total jackass. Or jackasses.)

Leads were blown, pitches were thrown belt-high, doubles were hit against the baggie...Ten Runs Were Scored by the Angels in the Outfield. (Sans Danny Glover, Christopher Lloyd, and, of course, Tony Danza.)

And the home team came home the victors.

Oh yes. What a bizarre night.

And there was still an empty seat in the Legends throne.

Double Your Pleasure

I was just about to post something about how nobody posts here anymore when I discovered that someone had posted here already today.

Two posts in one day on the Legends blog.

This is ground-breaking. Earth-shattering. Floor-splitting. Ink-spilling. Mouth-opening. And such'n'such.

Now let's all take a step back, pause, and enjoy.

An Ode to Mr. Goodbar

O! Mr. Goodbar
Thine group of peanuts covered in delectable fudge
Why do they call thee Goodbar?

Thine cluster of peanuts surrounded by the pride of Columbia
(pride of Columbia that isnt the white powder that goes in the nose boy that feels good just inhaling it and the blood drips and drippppppssssss)
Why must thee call it "Good"?

Thus must be bequeathed a proper handle:
Mr. Mediocrebar

my post-modern cubicle.

My file cabinet collapsed this afternoon. My papers went flying everywhere.

Now, when I look to my left, I see a sideways file cabinet, with no files in it. It's very post-modern.

Man, I am the most hip tax accountant in the world.

Rejuvenating the Legends

I posted this in the literature forum I'm obsessed with. The subject was "Write a Really Really Short Story in 50 Words or Less."


"I'm gonna build a really tall statue. A monument."
"Why?"
"Why not?"
"Because you're not an architect. Because you're broke. Because nobody cares."
"Shut up. It's my lifelong dream."
"I bet you just made it up now."
"So what if I did?"
"You're an idiot."
"It's gonna be Bob Saget."

a fond fairwell to a friend

As I sit in training for my job, I recall a dramatic moment between myself and a special somebody who was very close to me...

I was looking up and realized that a piece of my hair had come out and was floating in the air. I blew on it gently and it went up toward the ceiling.

Goodbye, friend. See you in the dust particles of this building.

an every day occurrence

Every day at work, I hear somebody talking, and I think, "Whoa, is that Alan Alda? He sounds just like Alan Alda! I can't believe Alan Alda works here!"

Then I turn around, and see somebody who is not Alan Alda.

hey idiots!

Walking down stairs is easier than walking on a regular floor. Escalators are designed to allow people to walk up and down stairs faster. Therefore, you can walk down stairs and, not only will you be at your destination quicker, but it's EASY because you're walking down stairs.

ARGH!

an announcement -- non-legends need not heed

The Legends will get Ben's couch at Mark's Super Bowl/Birthday party at Ben's apartment and everyone else sits on the FLOOR!

Birthday Trivia

Charles Nelson Riley and Orlando Bloom share the same birthday. Coincidence? I think not.

I DO suck

and here's why.


So yesterday I had cuffed pants on. I was leaving the break room walking down a normally well populated hallway, when all of a sudden my right foot got caught in my left leg cuff. Down I went, face first, palms burning from the friction of them and the carpet.

I was up in less than 2 seconds, looked around, saw that absolutely no one was around. How had this gone unnoticed? This is normally the time where several people come up to me and say "are you okay??" and I sheepishly respond "yes, haha, yes..."

But that didn't happen. No one saw. That's not right! So I told a couple of my coworkers, and now the blogiverse.

Thank you Ben for remindind me how much I suck.

The Lazies of Livejournal

Hey Legends,

We suck butt.

In My Journeys Abroad, I Have Made One Giant Observation...

The Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese is gross. It has way too much meat.

Today is a song by some band I've never heard of.

Today I made up some words. They are:

Roundingvillephabet
Usurpathonmonbon
Northhamptonkyonky
Preherbamamdatory
Unfitferuitrients

I used the first two in sentences. Like so:

"Is today Roundingvillephabet?"
"No, you buffoon, it's Usurpathonmonbon!"

The Dreamworld

Last night I dreamt that I wrote a book (it was called "The Door Warrior," whatever that means), but I only wrote part of it. I guess I sent it in for publication when I only had 40 pages done, and since I didn't have it copyrighted, some jerk at the publishing company decided to finish it himself. The copyright notice inside the book said something about how every word, idea, and thought that appeared in the book was copyrighted by the jerk, whose name was like Michael H. Really-long-name-beginning-with-the-letter-C.

In my semi-sleepified state, I told myself that people can't copyright ideas. But in my current and slightly more aware state, I realize that I should start copyrighting ideas up and down and then sue writers left and right. Then I'd have all the directions covered.

Hey Everybody!

I just went down yonder on the chatahooch.


And decided to spend the several hours before my hardest final looking at people's blogs! On the chattahooch!


Something tells me that in Minnetonka I won't be seeing Pandas do squat. Or anything else!