Category Archives: Ponderings
Random thoughts about nothing in particular.
I consider myself a pretty amicable person. That said, I’ll be the first to admit that there is a longer-than-average dirty laundry list of things that can make me irritable. There are the standards that many find perturbing, such as the ever-prevalent cell yell, then there are some that are a bit . . . unusual. Meaning, I’ve asked for opinions to see if I am being unreasonable. While some people, when pressed, will concede my pet peeves could be annoying under certain circumstances, those non-committal responses tend to be delivered askance. It doesn’t change my stance (rhyme unintended); peculiarity is subjective, I say. So here they are.
Keep your saliva to yourself
I’ll venture lightly into this diatribe with the pet peeve that is easiest to understand, if not embraced by all. Spit is gross. I think that is a universal constant. If we discover intelligent life on other planets and spat on the ground in front of them, they would probably be pretty insulted and repulsed. However, I extend my revulsion to saliva in any quantity. Unless it is shared under appropriate circumstances, and you know what those are, I don’t want any near me—nary a speck. I just don’t like casual spit. There, I said it.
I can’t help but focus on the tiny spittle that sometimes flies out of a mouth accidentally. When it happens to me, I pray those who might witness it don’t have the eagle eye to spot it. Why? Because when it happens to other people, I notice. I notice hard. My eyes roll to follow the arching trajectory of the droplet to its eventual destination. If it lands on something of mine or my person, I have to channel my energy to not react lest the shooter be just as embarrassed as if I were in the same position. I also time the casual wipe—not with my bare skin, mind you—of the spittle if it has landed near me. It is probably close to evaporating at the point it is safe to do that without garnering notice, but it calms my mind so that I can move on.
Oh, I’m not quite finished with this one.
I don’t know which is worse, licking your finger to handle paper, or doing it to remove a spot from someone else’s body. Both set my teeth on edge. Why, why would anyone force their own fluids onto an unwilling participant? It’s rape, dare I say, of the sputum variety. Also, I trust the culprit’s mouth is not minty fresh, so that spit is skunking up whatever it is drying on.
I made the mistake of writing this in the middle of my lunch hour. I don’t feel so good, now.
I love shopping and bringing home my spoils. But Christ on a stick, I hate the price and other identifying tags that are adhered to them. When they come off cleanly with one peel, I’m okay. But when goop and torn paper remain, I shudder at the filth that is left. I feel my jaw jut out and clench as the gooey paper accumulates under my fingernail while I attempt to remove the residual muck. When that fails, out comes the rubbing alchohol. More times than not, it mars the surface of the once pristine product. That is bad enough, but I can’t even fathom why anyone would just adopt a devil-may-care attitude and not even try to remove the sticker in the first place. Have you ever drunk out of a mug that still had the UPC sticker on the bottom? The coffee tasted more bitter to me, I confess.
In conclusion, this world would be a cleaner and more peaceful place if sticky labels were eradicated completely.
Don’t over-ick the pudding
If I had to choose between Heaven and Hell, it would be the place with chocolate pudding. It is my absolute favorite dessert of all times. While I don’t expect everyone to carry the same level of obsession with the food of the gods, I am within reason to ask that the majority acknowledge that it is the superior flavor of pudding. When people think of pudding, they should automatically think of chocolate. Is that so wrong?
Then why do most restaurants, if they serve pudding, default to rice or tapioca? Who informed them that it was the most popular choice of puddings? Is there some elaborate, sick joke to which I am not privvy? I’ve tasted both and it is a pointless, and even painful, exercise of consuming something just because it is there. I’d rather savor the calories that I must burn off at the gym later. When I set to enjoying a bowl of pudding, I do not want to chew it. For all I know, those lumps could be curdled, spoiled chunks of milk. I trust it wouldn’t taste any different. If I want maggots in my food, I’ll put maggots in my food. Otherwise, give me the pristine, creamy goodness of cocoa. Thank you.
Don’t get me started on bread pudding. It isn’t pudding, it’s a glorified, mashed-up danish.
While I have referred to myself as a Luddite, of sorts, I embrace the evolution of the paperless environment. Why? It means less paper, of course. Full sheets that are kept neat and flat are fine. I must brush many aside to confirm the color wood of my desk. But when they curl up on the ends, become frayed, discolored, or the gods forbid—tear off into messy little pieces, my mood changes quicker than Enron can shred an incriminating document.
Do I really need to explain myself on this one? It just makes the world look like shit.
Sticky notes are a necessary evil. But make no mistake, they are evil. I strike a deal with the Devil every time I feel compelled to use one. I breach that contract if the adhesive gets hair and dirt on it or otherwise gunkified. That’s right, I made that word up. SUCK IT, Satan!
Another thing that drives me to the parking lot of the nearest insane asylum is when someone turns a piece of paper into a bookmark. There is a reason that book and stationary stores have a display dedicated to bookmarks to suit any and every interest, personality, etc. It makes it inviting to show books the proper respect with a pretty, tidy companion. I am shocked, shocked I say, at the amount of lazy slobs who use a register receipt, a straw wrapper, and even a [shudder] ripped piece of paper. Not to mention, dog ears look cute only on dogs and children. Despite my desire otherwise, I fear the aforementioned paperless environment is extending to books. There is nothing like holding one in my hands and turning the (immaculate) pages. However, I consider the sacrifice of that to be a noble one if it would remove the madness that is atrociously makeshift bookmarks.
Platitudes give me an attitude
This is a multi-faceted one. Where to start?
Let’s be straight with each other. When you ask me how I am doing and I respond with other than an “Oh pretty good, and you?” chances are high that you will not want to hear it. If I were to go off on a rant about my recurring herpes flare-up (hypothetical, of course) you will instantly regret pissing me off with this platitudinal inquiry. You don’t care how I am doing, you just want to make yourself known to as many people before tumbling off your dumb-ass mortal coil. Admit it.
While we are on the subject, don’t ask me how my weekend was, nor lead my response by asking if I had a nice one. Chances are high, again, that if it wasn’t horrible, it fell short of expectations, and you won’t want to know that. Once it is over with, I generally want to forget it happened lest it remind me how I am not spending my free time, i.e., away from the den of revulsion that is the typical 9-5 office, the way I should, much less to my enjoyment. While no one’s fault but my own, it is also no one’s business but my own. Still, it is Monday and my life is like a dehydrated vampire bleeding me dry, thanks.
I extend platitudes to small talk, if for no other reason than it is just an oxygen-wasting endeavor. Yes, it is quite hot outside. I think most would agree with that observation. Why must it be reiterated, again and again? Let’s discuss something of more import, like the nuances of expelling my dog’s anal glands. How’s that?
Please oh please think up a better response than “I’m sorry” or “My thoughts and prayers are with you blah blah blah.” Be creative. Tell me that the world can blow me, or something like that. That would make me smile.
Just because I am reading a book while in an elevator, doesn’t necessarily mean it is such an engaging story. I just don’t like twiddling my thumbs, and am interested in reading as many books as possible until I go blind or lose my ability to comprehend the written word. Why must you interrupt me by stating that it must be a good book? If it is or isn’t really doesn’t change the fact that this claustrophobic individual doesn’t want to talk to anyone when confined in a 6′ x 6′ box.
I don’t want to touch it, nor do I want it touching me, especially if I don’t know the person. Hair, that is. I can’t explain it, but it creeps me the fuck out. Keep it away. Inhabiting many a crowded public transportation vehicle has made me painfully aware of this . . . I’d call it an issue, but I feel fully justified in my . . . okay, it’s an issue. Really, though, hair can get seriously funky and carry contagions. Why do you think there are places—such as Hair Fairies—dedicated to removing bugs and other foreign matter from human hair? If the Bible said that animals were put on this earth to serve man, then we should be putting monkeys to work picking out all the nasties and other debris from our disease-ridden heads. Don’t put me in the position of contemplating what leapt from your scalp onto my nubile flesh.
No matter how clean the person, dreads smell funky. I’m not talking about the neatly kept braided variety—I’m referring to natty blobs, or shit-dreads, as they are so eloquently named. At minimum, a stale dishrag odor wafts from them. At worst, they smell like something crawled on the person’s head and expelled its gaseous death rattle into the air around it. Not to mention, it looks like a big glob of prehistoric feces. Did someone step in a pile of dinosaur dung and wipe his shoe on the closest unsuspecting victim’s head? And why are these considered hip?
I toss my luxurious, perfumed locks in indignation. Harumph!
What? All right, maybe I over-stated that a touch. But I wouldn’t expect you to touch my hair to debunk that claim, now would I?
It occurred to me recently that I am the author of some ideas I share with others that theoretically could be passed on without applying credit where it is due: Me. Of course, there is a strong assumption that any of them are worth repeating. In my humble opinion, they are pretty dang clever. Then again, Emo Phillips said “I used to think the brain was the most fascinating organ, then I realized what was telling me that.” I heard it first from him as a guest patient on Dr. Katz, and am content believing he thought up that gem, even though ostensibly I could Google it to make sure. The point is twofold. I think my ideas are worth sharing, but then again, look who is leading me to believe that. Second, I find it prudent to document them on the infinitely accessible medium called the Internet blog, lest I become like the poor sap who is banging his head against the wall for being the uncredited author of Emo’s hilarious joke.
Okay, I admit it. I’m paranoid. It doesn’t mean they aren’t after me. I don’t think Kurt Cobain originated that concept, incidentally, but he is certainly known for the lyric. I think I’ve made my point. Onward.
How do accountants practice safe sex? By using tax shelters.
Ba dum, bum.
ignoranus [ig-nuh-rey-nuhs]—noun, plural – anuses: an asshole who doesn’t know shit.
Urban Dictionary can SUCK IT!
Osama’s burial at sea officially changed his name to Osama been Bobbin’.
What? Too soon? Puh! Let the 72 virgins canonize that evil bastard.
I’ll have you know that when I was a kid, I wondered if we would ever be able to see the person we are talking to on the phone. Skype can suck it, too.
In the spirit of this blog post, we all want to be recognized for our work. Even ghostwriters want to be paid for being anonymous.
I guess it can be described as a hybrid of the following actions: gagging; spitting; vomiting.
. . .
Huh. Now that I documented it, I am not as prolific as I thought I was. Still, I can sleep well tonight knowing I protected my intellectual, albeit useless, property.
Blogs— the electronic poorman’s copyright. Hey! There’s another one.
Here is my second installment of ponderings. They’re just as random as the last batch.
- Ms Ryder, Winona, if you really were called an oven-dodger, you should be outraged. No one deserves that level of disrespect. Regardless, I still don’t like you.
- I hate to break it to the Robert Pattinson adoration society, but technically, his vampire from Twilight is a pedophile. Think about it. He met her when she was 17 and he was 109; he is over six times her age. That’s just creepy.
- Speaking of, it seems only in religion can abstinence be preached and pedophilia practiced at the same time, and get away with it.
- The person who decided to train cashiers to sandwich the receipt between the currency and coin, needs to be bludgeoned with a pillowcase full of register tape rolls.
- Just because I don’t have time to talk about gay marriage, animal rights, etc., doesn’t mean I am against it. I just don’t care to show my support while standing outside in inclement weather and talking to a complete stranger, all while missing my train. Nothing incites that level of devotion in me.
- Why do people on television or the movies make out after drinking coffee? A garlic and shit sandwich is the only thing that might result in worse breath.
- I think we should all practice reverse psychology on ourselves and make New Year’s Irresolutions instead, and list all the things we want to do as things we don’t want to do. What’s the worst that could happen?
- What is reality tv like in Bizarro World?
- Why is it good to be the salt of the earth, but bad to salt the earth?
- While I don’t subscribe to the concept of heaven and hell, I think proof of the latter may be in the growing popularity of skinny jeans.
- How can celebrities be so image-conscious, yet go out of their way to arouse suspicion that they might be insane?
- So what you are saying is that your soul—Thetan is it?—was dropped in a Californian ocean . . . from Venus? Really?
- In any other occupation, Tom Cruise would be institutionalized.
- I think L. Ron Hubbard was looking to recruit all people named Diane into his cult. He failed with me. Neener neener booyah!
- Who is the arbiter of which religion is the right one? I haven’t met that entity yet.
- Why is it that people who believe in angels are considered normal, but those who do of fairies are touched in the head? They’re both chicks with wings, just like Victoria’s Secret models.
- Now . . . why do we need pennies?
- Am I the only one who gets freaked out by the tests of the Emergency Broadcast System?
- When will the general public realize that Taylor Swift is not talented?
- I’m just going to say it. If Justin Bieber removed his helmet of hair, he’d look like the poster child for St. Jude’s Hospital.
- What does it take to get Gary Oldman an Oscar nomination? The British actor played an American who was a psychotic, perverted, paraplegic, self-mutilating, homosexual pedophile who FED HIS FACE TO DOGS! For cripe’s sake, a role doesn’t get much more challenging than that.
- News flash! It isn’t special anymore to own a mobile phone. There is no important person’s club, and even if there was, you couldn’t be a member. So zip it!
- If someone farted during a moment of silence, I suspect that person would use the remaining time to pray no one heard it.
- I wonder if Alfred Fielding popped a pimple in the mirror and said, “Eureka!” Then, he invented bubblewrap.
- The person who could create a laxative for writer’s block would become a bazillionaire, then collapse into bankruptcy and ruin once it is discovered it causes colon cancer. Figures.
- If a married human had sex with a humanoid, is it cheating? I hope not; it would seriously corrupt my Jude Law AI fantasy.
And again, where do I end this mess? There was an overwhelming religious and deviant sex theme with this group. Hmm.
Oh, good Christ, how I love Nutella. The creamy hazelnut and chocolate spread has a hold over me like no other. It is ambrosia. The gods smile down on me every time I scoop its velvety goodness onto whatever edible item I have in hand. I must lick the utensil afterwards lest I displease them; it shan’t go to waste.
I thought this delicious concoction came into being in the 1960s. No, it turns out the Italian food company Ferrero took an existing food and formulated it into their own proprietary recipe. Gianduja is a sweet chocolate containing hazelnut paste and was invented in Turin, Italy back in the 19th Century. They duped us with the Shroud, but appeased us with the inspiration for . . . the Nutella. You are forgiven.
Once I became ultra-health conscious, I stopped worshiping at the Church of Nutella because of its unfortunate ingredient: Hydrogenated oil. That stuff is just bad news. In 2005 I spent a month in Italy and was ecstatic to discover that the version of Nutella there was sans trans fat. I had a jar available at all times during my stay there. When I got back to the States, I would occasionally check the label to see if they had caught up with Europe in their ingredients. I believe the gods acknowledged that I was devoted to the cause, because eventually, my prayers were answered. Truth be told, I am not sure what the replacement—modified palm oil—really is. While not necessarily a euphemism for a similar process to what makes hydrogenated oil so damaging, albeit delicious, I suspect there are still some unknowns swimming around in there. No matter, I will bask happily in ignorance until some scientific research disenchants me.
Okay, enough with the history. Let me discuss the ways Nutella exponentially improves desserts. Apparently, Europeans like to spread it on their morning toast. Meh. As much as I love chocolate, for me it is meant as a dessert or snack, not the first meal of the day. That said, it is delicious on a sweetened bread, such as cinnamon raisin, especially so when toasted. Waffles and pancakes aren’t just for breakfast anymore when slathered with Nutella. Crepes? There is nothing quite so rapturous as slicing your fork into that light and fluffy cocoon to watch the chocolate river flow out onto the plate.
Those are obvious pairings with Nutella, but what does one do when met with a mediocre confection? Always, always have a jar on hand for those little emergencies. I would not be surprised to find a small one stashed in Batman’s utility belt. You never see him eating, but crime fighting is a serious calorie-burner, and requires refueling. Energy bars are bland, but dip them in Nutella? Well, I have not tried it, but I trust it would improve the flavor and potency greatly, and turn a utilitarian food into a treat.
Anyway, just to reiterate: Adding Nutella makes a dessert more decadent. Case in point. I got these packaged chocolate tarts from World Market. I was expecting a worthwhile investment; what I got was a dry pastry with a micro-thin layer of chocolate. Even heating them could not salvage these things, while technically tasting okay, they made me hiccup as I tried to choke them down. Bam! Out came Nutella to the rescue. A generous heaping on the tart was all it took to make those babies eagerly slide down my gullet. I couldn’t wait for the next bite.
Whole Foods has these Italian lemon cookies called pizzelles. They are glorified communion wafers. They are fairly edible and low in calories and carbs, but they are boring. Boom! A glob of Nutella did those suckers more justice than they deserved. The Nutella gods showed their compassion.
Here is a list of other items that cry for Nutella: Girl Scout cookies; biscotti; pound cake; angel food cake; rolled wafer cookies—any cookies really; dessert shells; filo dough . . . do I really need to continue this list?
Nutella can also make something that stands extremely well on its own, better. Observe, the Cadbury crème egg. This little nugget of heaven seems to be about the perfect candy, correct? I thought so too, until Nutella came into the equation. “But,” you may respond, “dipping a crème egg into a jar of Nutella would be just too much for me! I’d go into a diabetic coma for sure!” No, it does not have to end that way. I merely suggest that you replace the “egg” filling with Nutella. “How can I do such a thing? It is impossible!” you might say. It is not, I assure you, with a food syringe and patience. Simply poke a hole into the egg, place the syringe in that hole, and pull the plunger to extract the filling. Do this until only a chocolate shell is left. (What you do with the discarded filling is really your business). Then, do the reverse process and fill the egg with Nutella. Voilà! I challenge anyone, after that undertaking, to set aside the super crème egg to have sex. It must be eaten right then, and after the last morsel is savored, you will luxuriate in the afterglow. Think about it.
As with duct tape, I have not found Nutella’s Kryptonite. It appears to be awesome with just about anything. In the name of science, however, I will continue my research to find it.
You want to torture me by putting my head in a cage full of hungry rats? Pfft, bring it. But spiders? Then, we’ll talk.
I am terrified of spiders and scorpions. Arachnophobia, it is called. Ironically, I really dig the movie. They are hideous, yet fascinating to look at from a safe distance. A viewing from Ft. Knox would be preferable.
I have always been afraid of them. Nothing specific ever happened to justify that fear, but regardless, it is there. My husband, on the other hand, loves them, as well as scorpions. He wants them for pets. Actually, there are a lot of decidedly uncuddly creatures he would like for his very own. He is like Hagrid—the creepier the better. When I was in the museum La Specula in Italy, I was doing a sketch of a tarantula—a dead one, no less—that was encased in glass. I was even getting creeped out by that. What’s wrong with me? Don’t answer that.
Really, if I chose to, I could put these critters into perspective. I am hundreds of times larger than them, they are more scared of me blah blah blah. Yet, I just can’t shake the idea that in some intangible way, they are compromising my safety. If they are in my vicinity standing there unimpeded, “breathing” my air, threatening to invade my personal space, and, perish the thought, make contact with my precious skin, I feel . . . really, I don’t know what I feel. It is a fear of the unknown, perhaps, or of the violated skin turning gangrenous. Whatever my issue is, I know in my right mind the likelihood of being harmed is slim to none. Scorpions are another matter, but those fuckers are not the focus of my despair, as they are not indigenous to my section of the country.
I was at the local aquarium one time with my husband. As we were rounding off the day browsing in the gift shop, I passed by a display of boxes containing RC Tarantulas—remote control powered synthetic spiders. For $24.95, you too could have innocuous exposure to those frightening abominations. This was basically what they looked like:
This is the reason I don’t believe in God.
If I were ever to rue one action, it would be this: I picked up the package and showed it to my husband. Much to my chagrin, he had to have it. He just had to blow the money on it. I knew when his eyes lit up I would regret it greatly on many levels. I could hear the wheels turning as he imagined our dog and cat’s response to it. Great. Lovely, and as much as I don’t like to be wasteful, I was hoping the dog would break it upon first pounce.
When we got home, the first thing he set to do was to assemble it. We were out of AA batteries, so he pulled them out of the television’s remote control. He was bound and determined. Yes indeed, the animals responded favorably to it. The dog leaped upon it, took it in her mouth, and shook it. That damn thing was appearing to be indestructible. Shit. One bright spot was that he acknowledged we couldn’t have one for a pet, as it wouldn’t stand a chance against the dog. After what seemed like hours of amusement, my husband told me to lay on my back. Not asked, demanded. Nya-uh. Knowing how he is, I knew what he had in mind and he wouldn’t let up until he got it. Get your minds out of the gutter, people. He wanted to let the thing crawl on me like some Peter Brady-esque nightmare. I felt the first stirrings of anxiety. He thrust the monster in my face; I grabbed his wrist so that I could have some semblance of control. I touched it. The fur was coarse, and its underbelly was plastic. Yes, the thing was fake. I was assured of that. Then, why was my finger hovering over the red panic button?
I finally mustered up the strength to go horizontal on the cold, heartless, tile floor. I wished it could yield to my weight and suck me in to some alternate-reality sans eight-legged creatures. Upon first contact with my clothed leg . . . “OH GOD NOOOOOOOOOOO!” At that moment, I felt my response was justified. I tried again. “GAAAAAAAAAAA!” Okay, maybe the third time’s a charm. It was, kind of, as I let it crawl on me for a few seconds before whacking the beast off me. I thought I appeased my darling husband. No. He wanted to put it on my face. The unspeakable horror at the thought caused the contents of my bowels to settle to the bottom. Not really, but I was frightened. Eventually, I let the thing hover over my face, perhaps touching me briefly. Actually, a quantum clock would be needed to register the amount of time it contacted my skin. I gave one last blood-curdling scream before I scrambled to my feet and ran to the safe confines of my delightful walk-in closet. My hubby was left kneeling on the floor, cackling maniacally.
We all have our Achilles’ heel.
Incidentally, I have this odd theory. Tarantulas look like they smell like cracked pepper. I don’t know why; perhaps it is due to the coarseness and color of their hair—peppery. However, I am not about to conduct the research to prove or debunk my hypothesis. I’ll just believe it to be true unless I am told—told, not shown—otherwise.
I just finished reading a book by my all-around favorite comedian—George Carlin. I highly recommend picking up When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops? His irreverence immortalized in his writings suits me very well, if it is not obvious from the tone of this blog. While he was known for his systematic way of taking the snot out of anything that flew into his radar (his whittling down of the 10 Commandments is a classic), his random thoughts and observations tickle me in particular. Really, if we don’t know when we will die, how can we be sure when someone dies prematurely? Something to ponder.
I decided to list some of my own musings in homage to Mr. Carlin. I am sure it will become a theme and hopefully evolve into my own brand of quirky perspective.
- Is it ironic that “onomatopoeia” is not spelled the way it sounds?
- Why are elevator encounters so socially awkward?
- I think everyone should be required to bring reading materials into a public washroom, especially at work. Make a show of it so that everyone knows that you are about to move your bowels. Let’s remove the stigma of pooping and embrace human digestion in all its repugnant glory.
- On that note, raise your hand after you fart and own it with pride. “Yep, that was me. What a relief to get that one out in the open! Whew!” It would save a lot of uncomfortable askance looks from those trying to appear innocent by attempting to locate the source.
- Why do actors make such loud smacking noises when they kiss on-screen? Is it like closed-caption for the visually-impaired?
- When did “reality television” become so unreal?
- I think animals got it right. Objectively, shaking hands is pretty stupid and pointless. Let’s get to the heart of the matter and just sniff each other’s asses.
- How did the intent of toasting do an about-face over the years? We used to clink glasses because no one trusted that they weren’t trying to off each other; now it is a demonstration of trust and friendship. I don’t expect you to laugh at this one. I just really want to know what is up with that.
- Back to the elevator question. I wonder why we all feel so compelled to smile upon entering. Actually, it isn’t a smile so much as a wince. Then we position ourselves as far away from the other person as possible. And then, silence. Look down at the floor. Look at what floor the elevator is at. More silence. Idly look at your shoes. My point is that perhaps we are wasting valuable energy here. Maybe invading personal space and spending the entire journey in a blinking contest would be more rewarding.
- I’m just going to say it: I don’t think Winona Ryder is that good of an actress.
- I think smokers who can’t wait to light up until after they leave a building should be deprived of oxygen against their will at random intervals throughout the day.
- Did you ever consider that maybe, just maybe, serial killers need love too?
- If you are told not to hold your breath waiting for something to happen, defy them. See how long you can hold it before people start freaking out.
- If we put our coworkers in a chokehold when they pissed us off, the workday would be much more productive and fulfilling.
- Why do British accents make people sound smarter? Even Ozzie Ozbourne sounds like he could be at least an idiot savant.
- Does an environmentally-conscious musician sing the greens?
- I challenge anyone to prove that unicorns don’t exist. Just because we haven’t seen one, doesn’t mean they aren’t out there. They may just be really good hiders.
- The Inquisition was a puzzling affair. Who cooked up that strange litmus test? I wonder what would have happened if the alleged witches responded by walking on water. Now there’s a conflict.
- The Taliban just needs to get stoned. Afghanistan has the means to facilitate that, in more ways than one.
- Platitude of the day, compliments of Dove Dark Chocolate Promises: Always bring your own sunshine. I find that ill-advised. I can’t explain why, it just sounds like a bad idea.
- Speaking of getting stoned, who do the religious conservatives think made pot?
The tricky thing about random thoughts is that there is no hard and fast rule on the best way to end. Basically, I ran out of ideas. I need to refuel.
Imagine that if time travel became a reality what some people might do with that new toy.
If I had a time machine, I would go back to the point before life started. Upon my arrival, there would be no hesitation on my part after a few photo ops (I just hope the flash works and lights the place up sufficiently). I would gather all the primordial soup, consume it (yum!), and not excrete it until I got back to the present day. I’d be giddy with the power I possessed to create such a messed up paradox.
No, I wouldn’t. It sounded pretty cool, though. Really, I would probably go back to 15th Century Italy and watch rivals Michelangelo and da Vinci in action. I might show my partiality towards the latter artist just to incense the other to make a fracas for entertainment purposes. I can’t fathom that doing any appreciable harm. There might be some collateral damage, but no big whoop. The toe of David was broken at one point, but can anyone tell? I think not.
Einstein just retooled his famous formula from the grave. E=MC2: Egomania equals Mass Destruction squared. I know I took license with that. Seriously though, how does ‘C’stand for velocity of light? Huh? Answer me, dammit! Besides, there was no good synonym for destruction that started with that letter (carnage didn’t flow off the tongue for me).