Salted Hippies

To drum up a little interest in the blog I’ll be offering $5 for every comment left from now until the end of the year. To receive your prize simply send a S.A.S.E for each comment, along with a money order for $11.95 to cover shipping and handling in US, Canadian, Australian or one of the other good dollars, and I’ll send you five crisp Zimbabwean dollars by registered mail.

Ahhh Zimbabwean dollars, as plentiful as grains of sand, but not hardly as useful. You can’t drop Zimbabwean dollars one at a time on ants to make them think their god is punishing them by making it rain boulders. They don’t fall straight. Ants are not afraid of them. They have no concept of currency. Ants are like hippies, mindless robotic hippies with too many legs.

You throw a Zimbabwean dollar at a hippy, see if they care. Fuckers.

Now you got me all riled up about the hippies. Only thing worse than a hippy is a French hippy. Stinky French hippies, can’t stand them.

I got some McDonalds french fries the other day, I’m going somewhere with this, and there was no salt on them. I’m not one of those salt-people that has to put salt on everything, but man, McDonalds fries without salt taste really bad. Not like fries without salt, more like socks without salt.

Which is ironic because they only way to get rid of stinky, sock-like, French hippies is to pour salt on them, one grain at a time, which makes them think their god is punishing them by making it rain tiny boulders.

The wheel turns.

f O o l

I’m nobody’s fool. I am an independent.

The Olympics is on. Men are running and jumping, huffing and puffing, exchanging precious oxygen for evil CO2. The Olympics is ruining the planet. Also the Special Olympics at a lesser, albeit just as valid, rate. Last night they ran the 400m relay combined hurdles, heat 2, and sea levels rose half an inch. We need to find an alternative to coal-burning athletes.

What we need is an engine that runs on CO2 or rhetoric. A rhetorical engine.

What if we could lead hypothetical lives? You could ring up work and say “hey, if I was to come in today, what do you suppose I’d be doing” and they’d say “well, you know same old stuff, except we are having a staff BBQ at lunch because Tanya is leaving on Thursday, but she actually has Thursday’s off and she has clients Wednesday so we’re doing it today.” And you could reply “well let’s just say I came in and all that happened and you paid me a bonus”

You know, it would go on like that for a while but neither of you would know how to end it and you’d be trapped in a hypothetical discussion forever and our naïve dreams that a hypothetical society of hope and freedom where we have the freedom to hope will be crushed by it’s very enslavement of us in that cruel irony fate reserves for the worst of sinners and bus drivers.

I am an independent fool. I fought a battle with myself in the 1700’s. There is a flag, embassies in all major cities, the money is hard to copy.

I am an independent fool and if I close my eyes you cannot see me.

Why not to have girls:

SJ: Here, pose for a photo to email grandma (click)
P4: How was that? Was it sexy enough?
SJ: (!) There will be no being sexy at ten years old. Or twenty.
P4: Probably by then I won’t be able to help it.

Also I was thinking, as you do, about what fairytale character I might want to be if I was forced into such a situation. You know in Snow White, the Woodsman guy that lets her go instead of chopping of her head like the evil step-queen-witch said? I’d be that guy.

He said “look I’ll let you go but I’ll need to chop off your finger or something to show the old lady. I need this job until I get my firewood business up and running. And whatever you do, stay away from those freak-ass dwarves.”

And then you don’t hear from him again. His story-obligation is over. And, because he’s technically a Good Guy, he gets more royalties than, say, the evil mirror. It’s a union thing.