The Fate of All Humanity

This Spring...

"I'm a mule girl."

"That's probably not something you should
go around saying to everybody."

Our very existence will be threatened...

"What's wrong with a regular shoe??
They look like they'd just fall off.."

"$33 shipping from Malaysia!"

And the fate of all humanity...

"I wonder what size I should order."

"Don't they fwap your heel every time you
take a step? How do you run in them??"

Rests in the hands of one man...

"What if you're being chased by a deranged postal
robber foaming at the mouth and waving a spork?!
How do you get away!? These are the things that run
through my mind as I shop for the perfect pair of shoes."

Like it or not, Pixels for Thought.

Herbal Chicken-Flavored Almost Better Than Perfect Vegetable Rice with Real Grilled Chicken of DOOM (but it could use pork) Like Momma Used to Make!

Sit back, my friend, and I shall tell you a tale of incredible intrigue and profound wonder. A tale of such clever mystique that it will have you gripping the very edge of your seat! You will hear of great deception and baneful betrayal, of timeless love and woeful loss, for this is tale told from the heart and, as any good story, it begins not far from here...


Once upon a time, there lived a happy little chicken. This chicken has nothing at all to do with the title of this story; however, he had this friend who absolutely loved peanut butter and crackers. One frightful day, as our chicken's friend was walking home, an ominous chord thundered through the sky. His apocalypse was at hand. The stars and moon had aligned and our chicken's friend knew his time on Earth was limited--not at an end, not coming to an end, but he suddenly came face to face with his own shocking mortality.

Meanwhile, three houses down the road, through the back yard, across the stream, up a tree, and in a squirrel's nest there lived a mongoose. Yes, this mongoose was raised by squirrels. Unaware of his true heritage, and mostly due to his size and unusual cravings for worms, grubs, and the occasional young wildabeast, this mongoose always felt different. This is a coming of age story for one mongoose named Flapper Jackswitch.

But be warned! This is not a tale for the feint of heart! It is a tale of such tragedy and such frightful terror that all ye with weak constitutions should cease reading immediately and return to your blissfully ignorant lives! For three towns over lived Flapper's best friend, who had a particular fondness for half-cooked fries. Fully cooked fries, he argued, simply had too much flavor. Then, in the dark of night last Thursday, Flapper's best friend burned his last bag of frozen crinkle-cut spuddy goodness. A shriek of utter horror pierced the ether.

Listening to that ether through a patented ether-listening Gizwit Funnel was a mad scientist who sat on the board of directors of the Second Order of Ethical Mad Scientists. The Second Order of Ethical Mad Scientists is as much a success as the Hindenburg or the Titanic. Don't even get me started on the First Order. The Second Order was contracted to make an almost better than perfect peanut butter and cracker. Their final recipe--one part antifreeze, two parts Windex, a dash of arsenic, and two whole peanuts layered in between two stale cracker halves--resulted in one very dead friend of our chicken who has nothing to do with the title of this story.

Three houses down the road, Flapper Jackswitch, our mongoose raised by squirrels, has lost his lifelong mentor to food poisoning. Undaunted, Flapper pushes on, forging his own path in life. But the journey ahead is perilous, much like an idea hatched by Flapper's best friend with the peculiar half-cooked french fry fetish. Last Thursday, he thought to cook his fries in the dark in a defective toaster, thus causing him to inadvertently burn down his house which lead him to release the horrendously frightening shriek of horror which was heard by the mad scientist through his patented ether-listening Gizwit Funnel thing. Coincidentally, this frightening shriek of horror was the same ominous chord heard by the friend of our chicken who has nothing to do with the title of this story. The same friend who now lies cold and motionless beneath a pile of ashes and burnt crinkle-cut fries. The same friend who was once a lifelong mentor to Flapper Jackswitch, our mongoose raised by squirrels.

Just how did Flapper come to a life raised by squirrels, you ask? Well, I'll tell you. It's quite simple really. Remember that First Order of Ethical Mad Scientists I spoke of? Well, you see, after you woke up this morning and on your way out the door, you greeted your neighbor as he was pulling out of his driveway on the way to a meeting of the First Order of Ethical Mad Scientists. In that fateful moment, your neighbor was briefly distracted and drove straight through a mongoose nest. A single mongoose survived, our friend, Flapper Jackswitch. In a compassionate frenzy, you saved young Flapper and, carrying him to the nearest tree, you dropped him in the first nest you saw. This nest was a squirrel's nest. You probably don't quite remember all this, but you hadn't had your morning coffee yet.

Oh, by the way, did you know that coffee is the only successful product to come out of the First Order of Ethical Mad Scientists? It is a mind-altering agent designed to create a complacent populace which would facilitate the goal of world domination for any secret society of mad scientists who may be so determined. Coincidentally, your neighbor knew full well what he was doing when he delivered that Box O' Tainted Joe to your doorstep two days prior.

But anyways, not to get off track...





Here, have a cup of coffee.











Like it or not, Pixels for Thought.

So You Think You Can Write Like Shakespeare?

Did you ever have a day where it seemed like everything that could possibly go wrong did, in fact, go horribly wrong but, at the end of the day and only after spending countless frustrating hours trying to make everything right, all those things that went completely wrong righted themselves and all that time you spent trying in vain to do the righting turned out to be entirely inconsequential?


As a literary device, I really dislike cosmic irony. It is an outdated form of expression and should have been relegated to sitcoms and poorly drawn comic strips eons ago. Yet, here we are in the twenty-first century and you can flip open the pages of anyone's life and spot innumerable instances of poorly executed cosmic irony in every chapter.

I know it's a classic but, honestly, it's time to move on to some more elegant and enlightened literary devices. Why not give juxtaposition a try? It is, in my opinion, a far more effective means of making a point. If you feel the need to get creative, there's always the ever-popular alliteration. Looking for something that can be used in a slightly more cynical context? Try hyperbole. Feeling like you can match wits with the greatest? Wrap it all up in a neat little box and allow iambic pentameter to tie the bow before delivery. The choices are practically unlimited!

So please, the next time you feel the need for a little cosmic irony, think about us little folk and consider using an alternative means of demonstrating your satirical omnipotence.



Like it or not, Pixels for Thought.

I Say, Where Did You Purchase That Stylish Hat?

Among the most essential of all items to an international traveler, the simple household bucket has a myriad of uses, both practical and perhaps somewhat less so. In fact, it might even be said that the nimble bucket is one of the most basic necessities of life, absolutely fundamental to our very existence.

It can, for example, be used as a convenient holder for various personal belongings while making your way through security checkpoints at the airport. Quality buckets are typically quite rugged and can withstand repeated use under the harshest conditions. Where regular luggage fails, a bucket will remain as dependable as man's best friend.

Not many people realize this, but a bucket can actually save your life! In the event of a terrorist takeover on the airplane, simply grasp your bucket firmly by its handle and introduce the terrorist's face to your bucket's shiny exterior proportions.

Traditionally, one finds countless uses for a bucket at the beach. Should you find yourself near a beach during your vacation, your bucket will undoubtedly offer multiple opportunities for enhancing your enjoyment. There's the ever-classic sand castle building tool and, of course, what is a sand castle without a moat? Your bucket will faithfully carry the saltiest of water to fill your moat. Don't forget the sea monster! Collect him in your bucket to keep him safe during transportation. Oh, did your traveling companion just suggest returning to the hotel? What a party-pooper. Your bucket will happily aid in the spiteful salt water soaking ritual.

Speaking of water-soaking, there is always the chance that the weather makes the unpopular decision to rain on your vacation. Try to look on the bright side: There's nothing quite as fun as running through the streets in the rain, getting soaked to the bones and jumping in every last puddle with the aim of further soaking your traveling companions. To that end, your bucket can be used as a rain-collector. Dump the water on your friends now, or store it for drinking after the rainy season. A prepared traveler is a happy traveler.

In the event that your international vacation takes a turn for the worst, a bucket can be used as an emergency "get him out of our country" card. Simply invert the bucket and place it atop your head. Funny faces and intensely aberrant behavior will expedite the process.

Philosophically speaking, a bucket has intrinsic value to its owner. Should a psychiatrist attempt to steal your bucket from you and lock it away in a very small space, your bucket would greatly appreciate any attempt to preserve its dignity. Biting may be required.

Every traveler likes to bring home souvenirs of their journeys. As you leave the sanitarium bound for the airport, your bucket can function as a handy basket allowing you to collect various memories off the streets. A wad of gum, a half-bent coin, a scrap of yesterday's newspaper. One man's trash is another man's treasure.

I hope now you see the incredible usefulness of the common household bucket. Akin to the wheel, it is surely one of the most innovative inventions to come out of the imagination of mankind. So as you prepare to depart, keep these words in mind and please, don't forget to bring a bucket.



Like it or not, Pixels for Thought.

It's Always The Door

Question: What does the phrase "big picture" mean to you?



Do all the details together make it?
Or is it larger than the sum of its parts?






I never liked history as a subject in school. I'm still not particularly fond of it, however I have recently come to the realization that it is not so much the topic I dislike, but rather the method in which it is frequently presented.

What is history? To the student, history is a burly assortment of scattered facts picked by a blindfolded professor right out of the timeline of human existence (as if he or she had a God-given right to do so), condensed and compressed into an ominous black thunder cloud until it is practically bursting at the seams, then coalesced into something known as a textbook (imagine that), on the cover of which is written either a wholly insufficient and indescriptive title (a la "American History") or one so remarkably conceited that, by the end of it, you feel like you've already read the textbook in its entirety and feel no more illuminated for it ("The Whole Entirety of American History: Revolution, Morality, Ethics, Religion, and Food, as Written by, Co-Authored by, Translated by, Spell-Checked by, Butchered by, and Ultimately Determined by Some French Guy Who Happened to Observe an American Tourist Strolling Casually Past his Flat One Thursday Afternoon on the Fifth of March"), which is how it is finally presented to the student in some kind of divine order (typically chronological) so as to, hopefully, teach a human lesson. After all, to get where we are going, we have to remember where we've been, right? (Do you remember where you stepped into this paragraph anymore?)

But what does all that really mean in the grand scheme of things? The facts and dates are scrupulously taught to the sponge-like student who is expected to later duplicate them on paper in exacting detail, but how does that help anyone?

"You," the stern-looked professor said, singling out a student, "on what day and by whom was the first shot of the American Revolution fired?"

"April nineteenth, seventeen seventy five at the Battle of Lexington and Concord," the student dutifully regurgitates, "but it is unknown who actually fired it."


Well that's just fine and dandy but--and I really mean this--I don't care.

(gasp)

I know, I know, I'm sorry. No, wait, not really and, at the risk of offending every teacher who has ever presumed to teach me anything, I'll say it again: I don't care.

Try asking me about its effect on the lives of the people surrounding that event. Maybe ask me how it changed civilization, society, and our culture, for better or worse, and how causality has created an endless wave of consequences throughout the timeline, like the ripples from a stone thrown into a pond. If you're daring, you may ask me how I feel about what took place, how I can either justify it or condemn the actions and morality of the individuals involved. But most importantly, don't forget to ask me about the ideas, those bottled up with ever-increasing pressure in the minds of the people, which ultimately could not be contained and burst forth as the ignition source of radical action.

Show me the big picture, or show me the door.



Like it or not, Pixels for Thought.

Do What You Like, Like What You Do

Remember Fun Dip? That stuff was awesome. You always knew it was summer when there was a pouch of Fun Dip to be opened. And if there was a glass of Kool-Aid nearby too, well!

Stepping out of the car, your skin feels a sudden drop in temperature. The wind has picked up and brings with it a quiet scent. Upwards your eyes and ears train themselves; you can feel it coming. And then, a soft rumbling in the distance.

Ever notice how things don't always work out quite like you had planned? What are you doing on this first day of summer? Are you where you expected you would be? Are you with who you expected you would be with? Are you living the life you had always thought you'd be living? Did you hit your mark? Are you even within driving distance of your goals? I can tell you, I'm about seventy thousand light-years away from mine.

The light gradually fades from the sky as the clouds move in from the west. The rumbling grows louder, closer, signaling its imminence. A flash of lightning, and the sky opens up.

Look ahead at the entire length and breadth of your summer for a moment. What do you see yourself doing? Have you made any progress at the end of it? Have you made new friends, found a new job, a new home, or improved your life at all? Has someone improved your life for you? Did you forget to thank them?

The clouds slowly pass overhead. The pitter patter of the rain gradually subsides and the sun shows its glowing face one last time. It sets the sky ablaze in a vibrant orange display, spreading its wings and reaching out with its breath to send warm words of parting as it confidently lays itself down. Even the leaves in the trees are unable to stop this final fiery burst of brilliance.

Can you remember the most fun you ever had in a summer? Undoubtedly it's a memory from your childhood, as summers had real meaning in those days, but what made it so special? Was it an event, was it a person, or maybe a group you were with? Do you still do those kinds of things? Why not? What has changed? Must it?

The sun's hands race gently across the grass, its fingers spread wide. The rain turns to vapor, reaching up from the ground to the sky from which it came. A foggy mist now hangs overhead. The sun has set in the west, leaving behind a trail of softly glowing clouds. From muted hues, the darkness slowly rises in the east to fill the gaps left by the sun. The air comes to life with the echoes of a rainforest as fowl and beast sing lullabies to their young.

When was the last time you laid yourself down on the grass and, eating Fun Dip and staring up at the clouds, named the various things you saw up there in the sky? When was the last time you executed a perfect cannonball into a populated pool? When was the last time you draped a blanket over your shoulders and singlehandedly took on all the boogeymen at once? Or maybe you still do these things?

The remnants left by the storm drip melodically from the leaves and the glow of the streetlights is scattered by the slowly settling vapor in the air.

Should we still do these things?

And a cat sleeps quietly on the windowsill, blissfully ignorant of it all.


On this first day of summer.




Like it or not, Pixels for Thought.