Monday, November 30, 2009
Blood Lust
Once there was a bed bug named Beatrice. Beatrice was good looking for a bed bug, she had a polka-dot dress (which is lower than the knee and thorax tight, Beatrice was a bit of an exhibitionist). She trudged along down the hallway, her beady little eyes searching for a new home. Suddenly warm air seeped underneath a door way. She immediately turned and walked into the warmth. Her tiny little legs sped up as she sensed the carbon dioxide drifting from her sleeping victims. Life was good, she had finally found two young men to feast on. Her twisted heart beat with a blood lust.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
The Day the Earth Turned Black
As a young Clinton Enns walked down the path towards school the sun beat down on him, but not in a punching in the face kind beat, it was more like love taps from the sun. A slight breeze wafted through a hedge and surrounded him like a blanket. The trees were green, with branches arching over the walkway. Clint adjusted his oversized backpack and trombone case he was carrying. He watched as his feet moved rhythmically along the path. He felt peace over come him and he was content.
Suddenly he looked up, feeling that someone or something was watching him. There lay a dog, curled up in the middle of the walkway. He just lay there ignoring all the children as they walked around him. He seemed to only be looking at the young Enns.
As he neared the dog he could not tear his eyes of off it. He lay there motionless, just watching. The dogs gaze was met till they were within feet of each other.
“Well, guess I’ll just walk around him then.” thought Clint. As Clint took the first step around the dog it jumped up and started barking loudly and angrily, or so this is how Clint interpreted it. Clint’s feet jumped a little in a surprised scared way. He let out a loud “STOP!”, this was all Clint could muster up. He yelled at the dog and it did not approach the little Enns boy. All around him his environment turned to black and all he saw was the dog and the path. He did not feel the sun or the breeze anymore, the green grass and trees were replaced by pitch black.
With the child’s heart still beating rapidly he walked backwards for a block, just watching the dog untrustingly. The dog stood there in the middle of the path, just watching not moving or even barking anymore.
The dog grew smaller in the distance. Clint turned around and was relieved to see that he was at school. The children played loudly on the playground. His eyes surveyed the scene as a feeling of comfort washed over him. Suddenly he could feel the sun and the cool summer breeze, he noticed again the green of the grass. It was then that he was filled with dread when he realized that he would have to walk the same way home.
That day Clint’s little heart was filled with dread. That dog was out of control and there was nothing Clint could do about it.
Suddenly he looked up, feeling that someone or something was watching him. There lay a dog, curled up in the middle of the walkway. He just lay there ignoring all the children as they walked around him. He seemed to only be looking at the young Enns.
As he neared the dog he could not tear his eyes of off it. He lay there motionless, just watching. The dogs gaze was met till they were within feet of each other.
“Well, guess I’ll just walk around him then.” thought Clint. As Clint took the first step around the dog it jumped up and started barking loudly and angrily, or so this is how Clint interpreted it. Clint’s feet jumped a little in a surprised scared way. He let out a loud “STOP!”, this was all Clint could muster up. He yelled at the dog and it did not approach the little Enns boy. All around him his environment turned to black and all he saw was the dog and the path. He did not feel the sun or the breeze anymore, the green grass and trees were replaced by pitch black.
With the child’s heart still beating rapidly he walked backwards for a block, just watching the dog untrustingly. The dog stood there in the middle of the path, just watching not moving or even barking anymore.
The dog grew smaller in the distance. Clint turned around and was relieved to see that he was at school. The children played loudly on the playground. His eyes surveyed the scene as a feeling of comfort washed over him. Suddenly he could feel the sun and the cool summer breeze, he noticed again the green of the grass. It was then that he was filled with dread when he realized that he would have to walk the same way home.
That day Clint’s little heart was filled with dread. That dog was out of control and there was nothing Clint could do about it.
Monday, November 23, 2009
A Revealing Monolouge
I went to a Matt Good concert on Saturday and as my friend and I waited in the parking lot, a certain hotel across the street caught our eyes. There stood, what appeared to be, a naked man in the window just watching the street down below. This is the tale of his plight.
I, the naked man, stand at the window watching the tiny clothed ants down below rush about. They walk hurriedly toward some unknown destination. Little do they know they run from themselves every morning when they put on their shirts and pants. They do not see themselves for who they really are, they are cowards of their very own self.
Cloths have hurled angst and sometimes an itchy discomfort at humanity. Every time I imprison myself with polyester or cotton I become the same as the rest. I hang my head in shame as I look at the shoes that drown my feet in sorrow.
They do not understand, all I want to do is buy some oranges. I feel a cold coming on and I need the vitamin C. If I were to buy an orange naked, the consequences society would enforce on me would be too great. Why can’t they understand? The clothed are the ones in the wrong. Perhaps the police should arrest the clothed. Free your selves free the naked I say!
A tear trickles down my cheek as I look down the road at the grocery store. I do not wipe this tear away, it reminds me of who I am. I am a man who is unaccepted in society, a man who has no friends, I am a pioneer blazing a trail in solitude but most of all I am the naked man.
I, the naked man, stand at the window watching the tiny clothed ants down below rush about. They walk hurriedly toward some unknown destination. Little do they know they run from themselves every morning when they put on their shirts and pants. They do not see themselves for who they really are, they are cowards of their very own self.
Cloths have hurled angst and sometimes an itchy discomfort at humanity. Every time I imprison myself with polyester or cotton I become the same as the rest. I hang my head in shame as I look at the shoes that drown my feet in sorrow.
They do not understand, all I want to do is buy some oranges. I feel a cold coming on and I need the vitamin C. If I were to buy an orange naked, the consequences society would enforce on me would be too great. Why can’t they understand? The clothed are the ones in the wrong. Perhaps the police should arrest the clothed. Free your selves free the naked I say!
A tear trickles down my cheek as I look down the road at the grocery store. I do not wipe this tear away, it reminds me of who I am. I am a man who is unaccepted in society, a man who has no friends, I am a pioneer blazing a trail in solitude but most of all I am the naked man.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Pickles are the Nicotine
Ronald McDonald has ruined my life, or made it better with its greasily delicious cheap meals ( I guess it depends which way you look at it). What’s worse is that they are open all night. I have gone on so many MacDonald runs late at night that it now feels strange to eat there during the day.
Double cheeseburgers are just about the greatest thing, add fries and a coke and it is the greatest thing until the next day rolls around, that is. I will not explain the havoc that the cheeseburgers cause the next day, needless to say it is pretty gross. For some reason its the pickle that does me in. I don't really like pickles by themselves, but when laid on a meat patty with care, they are rather addicting.
Double cheeseburgers are just about the greatest thing, add fries and a coke and it is the greatest thing until the next day rolls around, that is. I will not explain the havoc that the cheeseburgers cause the next day, needless to say it is pretty gross. For some reason its the pickle that does me in. I don't really like pickles by themselves, but when laid on a meat patty with care, they are rather addicting.
Monday, November 16, 2009
My World
Here is what I see right now.
1) Speakers
2) My laptop
3) My very own shoes.
4) A text book that I should be reading
5) A shirt I hung with care, so as to let it dry
6) Not one but two full garbage cans
7) A bag full of books my roommate should be reading
8) A very messy bed with clothes strewn about it.
9) A laundry basket that serves as more of a book basket
10) A football called Wilson who is apparently wearing my toque
11) Cinder blocks
12) Some very old and gross curtains
13) Peeling paint
14) The door to my room that is partially open
15) There is a cheap desk full of dents and scratches somewhere underneath papers, electronics, snacks and textbooks.
16) A blogging website that does not allow me to format my entry the way I want it
1) Speakers
2) My laptop
3) My very own shoes.
4) A text book that I should be reading
5) A shirt I hung with care, so as to let it dry
6) Not one but two full garbage cans
7) A bag full of books my roommate should be reading
8) A very messy bed with clothes strewn about it.
9) A laundry basket that serves as more of a book basket
10) A football called Wilson who is apparently wearing my toque
11) Cinder blocks
12) Some very old and gross curtains
13) Peeling paint
14) The door to my room that is partially open
15) There is a cheap desk full of dents and scratches somewhere underneath papers, electronics, snacks and textbooks.
16) A blogging website that does not allow me to format my entry the way I want it
Friday, November 13, 2009
The Wrath of Howard
I thought a lot recently about a good friend of mine named Howard. Howard was a bat that my family owned when I was but an innocent, healthy young buck in the prime of my life. My dad and I discovered Howard one day when he was teaching me how to hunt wolverines with my bare hands. As I approached a cornered wolverine my dad jumped up and down with excitement yelling manly encouragements at me, such slogans as “MESS EM UP!” and “THAT FURRY HELL BEAST AINT GOT NOTHIN ON YOU!” (For some reason my dad had it out for wolverines, he always referred to them as furry hell beasts)
I puffed on the massive cigar nonchalantly as I cracked my knuckles and twisted my neck. The hell beast snarled and growled, the snot dripping from his mouth. I stepped forward staring the wolverine down. It crouched protectively over a bat it caught somehow. My teeth clenched the cigar in a vice like grip, smoke wafted out of my nostrils into the cold winter air. My eyes narrowed, this must be why my dad despises wolverines, they kill needlessly. After dealing with the wolverine we headed home with little Howard the bat in my hands. I cradled him softly as the massive truck swerved and ramped towards my homestead.
Being the trooper that Howard was he healed up real nice. Soon he out grew what comforts we could provide him and we were forced to loose him on nature. That day my whole family shed a tear. We had many wonderful memories of Howard, how he would bite guests in the neck, how he would scare the neighbour’s dog and children off our lawn but most of all we remembered how he touched our hearts.
His beady little eyes saw through our rough interiors and into our very souls.
I puffed on the massive cigar nonchalantly as I cracked my knuckles and twisted my neck. The hell beast snarled and growled, the snot dripping from his mouth. I stepped forward staring the wolverine down. It crouched protectively over a bat it caught somehow. My teeth clenched the cigar in a vice like grip, smoke wafted out of my nostrils into the cold winter air. My eyes narrowed, this must be why my dad despises wolverines, they kill needlessly. After dealing with the wolverine we headed home with little Howard the bat in my hands. I cradled him softly as the massive truck swerved and ramped towards my homestead.
Being the trooper that Howard was he healed up real nice. Soon he out grew what comforts we could provide him and we were forced to loose him on nature. That day my whole family shed a tear. We had many wonderful memories of Howard, how he would bite guests in the neck, how he would scare the neighbour’s dog and children off our lawn but most of all we remembered how he touched our hearts.
His beady little eyes saw through our rough interiors and into our very souls.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
O the Inspirational Possibilities
There is a old saying floating around out there that I don’t agree with in all situations. It goes like this, “Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.”
I think we should use curling as a metaphor for life. One could say “Yea that’s pretty close, average, I mean in curling that would not be on the button but It’s close enough.” or maybe they could say “In curling that rock wouldn’t be even close, in fact it would be taken off the rink.” or perhaps they could say something about setting up a guard around the button in an effort to make the shot impossible.
Why not compare life to pool? People could talk about dealing with obstacles, that seems to inspire people. “Hey, just jump that eight ball in your life and sink the twelve in the corner.” A man or woman could say enthusiastically. Why not?
I am sure there’s some correlation between forests and life, a thing about community. A person could say “Hey roots are important.” or some such thing.
The possibilities are endless.
I think we should use curling as a metaphor for life. One could say “Yea that’s pretty close, average, I mean in curling that would not be on the button but It’s close enough.” or maybe they could say “In curling that rock wouldn’t be even close, in fact it would be taken off the rink.” or perhaps they could say something about setting up a guard around the button in an effort to make the shot impossible.
Why not compare life to pool? People could talk about dealing with obstacles, that seems to inspire people. “Hey, just jump that eight ball in your life and sink the twelve in the corner.” A man or woman could say enthusiastically. Why not?
I am sure there’s some correlation between forests and life, a thing about community. A person could say “Hey roots are important.” or some such thing.
The possibilities are endless.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
The Red Baron of '91
There are points in everyone’s life where it marks a change in their character. For Josh it was when he realized he could jump real high, Dave changed when he discovered his superior brick throwing arm, Tim discovered a new life direction when he aced that quantum mechanics test in grade 3, Steve became bitter when staples refused to return his sparkly gel pens (even after all the girls made fun of him), Derek changed when he saw a truck rip donuts on his front lawn, Mark Jensen changed the day he heard an inspirational rap by Mr. T and I changed the day I got my drivers.
What a great day that was. I remember as if it was a few years back. The sun was probably shining, birds were more than likely chirping and I was basking in my new found freedom. I walked outside of the building where I got my drivers and drove home for the first time. From that day on I chauffeured my friends around town gleefully. My youthful exuberance willed the old van through many snow storms until I got my first car.
The fifty dollar tires kept me on the right path, the twisting engine almost shook me of the path but the steely beast kept trudging on. When the car roared to life heads turned towards what they originally thought was a lawn mower. Much to everyone’s surprise there was no lawn mower on the Superstore parking lot but rather a cherry red 1991 Pontiac Sunbird, "The Red Baron" as it affectionately became known as.
There was a hole in floor, the car did not start unless you jiggled the shifter, flooded the engine with gas and turned the key over for about 30 seconds, despite these unfavorable characteristics the machine never quit on me. It was as dependable as the seasons. Sure the lights did not turn on if it was too cold and the seal on the doors were broken but the car did what it was supposed to do.
It was this car that made me realize what character truly meant.
What a great day that was. I remember as if it was a few years back. The sun was probably shining, birds were more than likely chirping and I was basking in my new found freedom. I walked outside of the building where I got my drivers and drove home for the first time. From that day on I chauffeured my friends around town gleefully. My youthful exuberance willed the old van through many snow storms until I got my first car.
The fifty dollar tires kept me on the right path, the twisting engine almost shook me of the path but the steely beast kept trudging on. When the car roared to life heads turned towards what they originally thought was a lawn mower. Much to everyone’s surprise there was no lawn mower on the Superstore parking lot but rather a cherry red 1991 Pontiac Sunbird, "The Red Baron" as it affectionately became known as.
There was a hole in floor, the car did not start unless you jiggled the shifter, flooded the engine with gas and turned the key over for about 30 seconds, despite these unfavorable characteristics the machine never quit on me. It was as dependable as the seasons. Sure the lights did not turn on if it was too cold and the seal on the doors were broken but the car did what it was supposed to do.
It was this car that made me realize what character truly meant.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Vinegared Creativity
This blog thing is getting out of hand pretty slowly. It’s taken all semester but as of late I am running out of content. How do people keep these things going? I might have to resort to talking about my day or complain about a pet peeve of mine. Perhaps complain about politicians, the latest band that sold out or maybe do some reviews of some kind. My creativity is wearing thin, like a burnt roast chicken’s skin it’s withering away while it sits in a convection oven. I must find a way to symbolically deep fry my creativity to preserve it for at least a month. That or maybe I should preserve it like pickles. Maybe that is it. All my creativity needs is some vinegar, dills and a tight seal.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Room 201
As I neared room 201 in near Taylor I smelt something amiss in the air. I knocked on the door, the door that seemed to emit an odour of malicious intent. “I’M BUSY!” yelled a voice that sounded like it had eaten nails wrapped in sandpaper.
“Bu...but...but Steve, you said we were going to the ice cream parlour today.” I said innocently, with innocent wide eyes.
“I LIED!” said the now hacking voice. A tear rolled down my cheek for the succulent cookie dough ice cream.
“GO AWAY AND STOP CRYING GINGER!” The boomingly angry voice, flaming daggers from his eyes shot through the door and into my heart. “Steve... we need to talk.” I said soberly.
“Not really, but if you’re gonna be all stupid baby about it.” He replied condescendingly.
I slowly walked in the room, the evil atmosphere enveloped me. There sat Thomas Guenther, ignoring the evil that Steve was stirring up, staring at his laptop screen shaking with uncontrollable fear. Steve sat cross-legged on his bed, hunched over the sandpaper and nails he had been devouring. Wham! Suddenly a plate leapt from Steve’s hands and smashed me in the teeth. Steve laughed as a tooth fell out.
“I...I...thought we were friends Steve...” I stammered in shock.
“Get out.” Steve glared at me as he reached for his baseball bat with rusty knives super glued to it.
I looked into his eyes. I have seen that look before. I saw it the time he punched me while I was wheel chair bound.
“Get OUT!” Steve yelled as he approached with the bat. I turned around and ran down the hall.
This man has no heart.
“Bu...but...but Steve, you said we were going to the ice cream parlour today.” I said innocently, with innocent wide eyes.
“I LIED!” said the now hacking voice. A tear rolled down my cheek for the succulent cookie dough ice cream.
“GO AWAY AND STOP CRYING GINGER!” The boomingly angry voice, flaming daggers from his eyes shot through the door and into my heart. “Steve... we need to talk.” I said soberly.
“Not really, but if you’re gonna be all stupid baby about it.” He replied condescendingly.
I slowly walked in the room, the evil atmosphere enveloped me. There sat Thomas Guenther, ignoring the evil that Steve was stirring up, staring at his laptop screen shaking with uncontrollable fear. Steve sat cross-legged on his bed, hunched over the sandpaper and nails he had been devouring. Wham! Suddenly a plate leapt from Steve’s hands and smashed me in the teeth. Steve laughed as a tooth fell out.
“I...I...thought we were friends Steve...” I stammered in shock.
“Get out.” Steve glared at me as he reached for his baseball bat with rusty knives super glued to it.
I looked into his eyes. I have seen that look before. I saw it the time he punched me while I was wheel chair bound.
“Get OUT!” Steve yelled as he approached with the bat. I turned around and ran down the hall.
This man has no heart.
Monday, November 2, 2009
The Discussion
The other day I sat down with Rory Kelly in a Star Bucks to ask him a few questions. The following dialogue ensued.
“So Rory, I see you wear boxes now.” I stated as we sat down with our high class beverages.
“Yeah, it’s a thing I do now... boxes breathe better than standard wear.” He replied.
“At times I question your sanity Rory, this might be one of those times. I mean... spheres are much shapely.” I suggested.
“That’s a lie Clint... and you know it.” Said Rory as he burned his tongue on the coffee and spilt a bit on his box.
“Nah, think of it this way. People are typically called squares because they don’t go to parties. So, because spheres are the opposite of squares they must be all about the party, also there would be more wind resistance. That is not something you want when walking against the wind.” I explained, smiling at his coffee stained box shirt.
“Maybe I was not going for functionality, maybe I had an interview for a new job at a law firm. Law firms are not looking for a party, they are looking for a sharp dressed man. Everyone knows squares have sharp corners.” Said Rory as he wiped his box shirt with a wet nap.
“Man, everyone loves a little party, especially the lawyers.” I declared.
“What do you know about lawyers? You are not one nor do you know one!” Rory argued
“I know you and you are a lawyer.” I said.
That's where I will have to end the account of that discussion. I am hungry and food awaits.
“So Rory, I see you wear boxes now.” I stated as we sat down with our high class beverages.
“Yeah, it’s a thing I do now... boxes breathe better than standard wear.” He replied.
“At times I question your sanity Rory, this might be one of those times. I mean... spheres are much shapely.” I suggested.
“That’s a lie Clint... and you know it.” Said Rory as he burned his tongue on the coffee and spilt a bit on his box.
“Nah, think of it this way. People are typically called squares because they don’t go to parties. So, because spheres are the opposite of squares they must be all about the party, also there would be more wind resistance. That is not something you want when walking against the wind.” I explained, smiling at his coffee stained box shirt.
“Maybe I was not going for functionality, maybe I had an interview for a new job at a law firm. Law firms are not looking for a party, they are looking for a sharp dressed man. Everyone knows squares have sharp corners.” Said Rory as he wiped his box shirt with a wet nap.
“Man, everyone loves a little party, especially the lawyers.” I declared.
“What do you know about lawyers? You are not one nor do you know one!” Rory argued
“I know you and you are a lawyer.” I said.
That's where I will have to end the account of that discussion. I am hungry and food awaits.
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