Posts Tagged ‘Rowling’

Re-Write the World

November 30 2011

Re-Write the World

Start over-parenting the child you’ll never have

Why does the TSA want me to take off my shoes?

They know what is best for you. Feet swell. Whether from walking or running, jobbing or being jobbed– prolonged sitting, especially– feet get all bloodfull and swole. By having you take off your shoes before you can even get to your gate, the TSA is helping you remember that your shoes are a man-made constraint, and not, as they are for say Sonic the Hedgehog, or Bo Jackson, a permanent fixture you can never remove at risk of being erased from existence. Bo may know sports, but he does not know shoe endorsement contracts. There’s other people out there Bo, and all we want to do is help. No one has to do everything alone. Not even Tecmo Bo could have ran a figurative (and in future installments, literal) train over every defense without Jeff Hostetler(?) to hand him the ball.

Also: finger exercise promotes heart health, nimbleness. We don’t want you mishurdling candlesticks, do we? [Sure, you’re quick, but, I mean]
Also also: it was Jay Schroeder, not Jeff Hostetler. Yeesh.

When will the sky stop?

When it’s good and ready. No. Rowling, rowling. Depends on how you mean. The sky only goes a couple miles up all around the Earth, after which

But, as far as an ending goes, June 24th 2112. Don’t worry– by that time you’ll be either dead or thoroughly lived-out enough to be indistinguishable from it. I mean, since we know when it’s happening, we do have ample time to come up with fixes of one kind or another. Not actual fixes– the sky is most certainly ending on June 24th, 2112– but best-case alternatives like, say, implanting some kind of breathers in our trachea so we don’t need to rely on the vacuum of space for our oxygen needs. The breathers will use stored oxygen, which will need to be resupplied regularly. But thanks to technology instead of relying on multiple heavy/bulky tanks per day, we’ll find a way to condense a day’s supply into bullet sized capsules, which we will load a week at a time into our airclips. The airclips will snap fast into the base of our spines; once in, they’ll be barely noticeable, but horrifically painful each time they’re up-clicked. Make sure you load your clip correctly or you’ll have to do it again, and the human mind + body isn’t prepared to handle this kind of pain more than once every three or four days.

Why the base of the spine? The sternum seems like it would make more sense and probably be less painful? For protection from Heartclutchers, honey. We can’t have those godless spacebirds taking all our oxygen as well as a pint of blood each time they breach our increasingly patchwork confidence vests.

I never thought I’d think it but you kids do say the darndest things on occasion *condescending back pat*.

What is fire?

Fire is what happens when you heat something up enough so that it releases its stored energy *upwards intonation*

No, what is the flames though.

FIre. Right?

But why are they flame-shaped

Oh. Right. Yeah. That’s a good question. Flames are like that because they never had a daddy.

No.

Yes, they never had a daddy and now they only want to be cool. Well, hot. And what’s neater than flames? Even Doctor House has them on his cane. And when a viking dies, how do you think they send him to forever? They shoot flames into his wooden corpsemobile until it is nothing. And what’s cooler than vikings? Flames. That’s what.

That feels like a tautology

You feel like a tautology. And it doesn’t feel like you, ergo…

Come ON

Ok, ok. Flames are angry ghosts from parallel dimensions. No, wait– happy ghosts. In other dimensions they present as all mood whispers and neck shivers, but their ghostbodies show up in this dimension as flames. Vice versa with all our dumb ghosts. Happy ghosts, rather. And that’s where they live– logs and dry grass and lighters and bunsen burners and such. They like tubes. All ghosts just want a sweet tube to settle down inside of — one long dormant and never to be disturbed again. Except ghosts don’t know what they want, which is why they’re so happy when you find them, unleashing skin prickles and sweet unsolicited shivers in their verse of origin.

But here– here, in the chorus– flames.

But why do leaves change color?

Leaves change color because they need to attract planes. Just like flowers are selectively pressured over time to become attractive to bees and other pollen-spreading animals [note: are there any other pollen-spreading animals? Do hummingbirds do it or are they too clever and just sip the nectar. Seems long-term foolish if they do AND is there a human equivalent of the bee to flower fuckbuddy relationship? Like a wingman but moreso; real hands-on and for both. Maybe a fertilization doctor. Do you think all fertilization specialists, during their late-nights multis-year post-graduate educations get matching hummingbird tattoos? Tramp stump or stitched to the chest, right over the heart, embroidered. Or where the embryos would be (if they don’t have embryos). Did I say embryos? I meant ovaries. I’m not that ignorant. I hope. (Seriously, though– hummingbirds?).

I’m sorry. What were we talking about?

What about bike tires?

What about ’em?

Why are some so thin but some all thick and prickly?

Bike tires, like people, are sometimes fat pieces of shit and should be treated as such. Next time you see a Huffy, you tell it. Tell it to it’s stupid, rubber face what a big fat asshole it’s being. The prickles are from where its body is rebelling against it and trying to create even more of itself. Mark my word, you go back there in two weeks and those prickles will be replaced with more tire. You MARK my words. WRITE THEM DOWN.

*crying*

Hey. HEY. You stop crying or I’ll give you something. Like, a lollipop maybe.

Blow-pop.

Sure. That’s doable.

I want grape AND watermelon

No. You have to choose one.

Grape

O-

NO! Watermelon

Just under the wire.

How does walking work?

One foot then the other. Repeat until finished.

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Am I Already Dead?

September 1 2011

Am I Already Dead?

How do I know FOR SHORE????

Are you a better father?
As evidenced by Ghost Dad, Jack Frost, and >>spoileralert<< Family Matters,1 being dead puts the e back in being dad. Everything is 165 bpm, glowsticks and licking faces– but towards the end of ‘getting psyched about raising some kids’ instead of ‘breaking down the ostensibly pro-social constructs of politeness, decency, and propriety; loving and being loved.’ Who’s face will you lick? A: nobody’s face. You are dead and also these are your children. Creep.2

HOWEVER, you still need to make shore you drink plenty of water. Just because you’re a ghost doesn’t mean you can’t get dehydrated. I mean, for cripessakes, kid– that’s ghost 101. What? Nobody taught you? You took an elective on the Portugese empire instead? Ha. ha. ha. You’re all right, kid. Here, why don’t we drop by my sidebar:

SIDEBAR: Dehydrated Ghosts
Dehydration is the scourge of ghost kind. As one of the Five Objects with which ghosts can interact (water, clues, pratfall triggers, books, and skirt hems), water is our only source of sweet death-giving hydrogen. Note: our ghost messages? Generally written in condensation or implied via dropping a nearby book and flipping to an evocative page. Water and Books– Five Objects! Also we loves pussy.
     Without water, we ghosts dry up. And that’s how the REAL Real Ghostbusters do it– that’s no proton pack, it’s a desert gun. Dries us right up. And not to spoil the Up with People Ghostbusters dick-sucking contest that is their cartoon show, but that desert gun is how they keep Slimer in line. You think Jerry likes being there? No. But if he tries to leave they’ll find him and sand his ass. Well, that and their liberal use of the dessert gun. Carrots and sticks, folks.
     Now when a ghost is dehydrated they turn into a coarse powder that makes for real easy storage. Also, real easy snortage. And this is how PCP is made (Post-Corpse Particles, or “Angel Dust”– real cute, huh?). Our dehydrated doublecorpses are ‘refined’ and sold so folks can let our old dumb lives run a number on their cerebral cortex. The resultant high is the effect of having as many as a dozen ghosts inside your face, just pushing switches and pulling levers and making you relive in flash bursts their most potent memories from their old dumb lives. And now I’m starting to repeat myself. Time to go vert some skirts. – Mark the Ghost

Oh right, parenting. So yeah– if you’ve recently experienced a dramatic increase to your interest in and skill at parenting, you’re probably dead. Try dropping some real crazy sentences on your spouse at odd times, show up at home when they wouldn’t expect you, make making it with them a number one priority– really make sure your  verbal interactions with them are not on ghost accident and that you can still touch them For Reals and you haven’t been D.W.’d.3 But chances are, you’re not dead, in which case you can look forward to getting some pretty delightful conversations out of the verification process in addition to some rill incredible Prove We’re Not Ghosts Sex.4
         If you want to be cute about it, why not field test this new pick-up line I just made up– “Hey baby, let’s make ghost’s together.” I really dig it, but I bet it is something that would only ever work on me. Tell me how it goes!

ACTIVITY: If you were a ghost, what would your Five Objects be? Assume that at least one is required for sustenance (it does not need to be water) and one should be your all consuming ghost goal (Mark is sort of doing the hard sell on skirt hems here because of it; note that Gerald Slimer’s is food). The rest can be spent on whichever methods you would find most entertaining to interact with the physical plane. Make your picks good because you are going to be dead a lot longer than you were alive! Rowling, rowling– after 12 years and 3 months you evaporate into nothing.

Social Media
While ostensibly about ensuring the easy, semi-consensual gathering of intelligence by governments-markets, social media has proven itself invaluable as an aliveness-verification tool. Just keep up a steady stream of tweets, pokes, encirclements, posts, squirts, dms, pms, ims, and dick pix and wait for your sweet, life-corroborating feedback…

– If NO REPONSE: you are dead or might as well be. Enjoy your newfound incorporeality and go seep through something. Ahh, yeah. Feels good, right? You can feel like that all the time. Just make sure you stay hydrated, keep on the lookout for clues,5 and start flipping skirts!6

+ If SOME RESPONSE: good news! You’re either not dead or, better yet, EVERYBODY is dead. Why is that such good news? If everybody is dead that means you are dead, right? And that’s exactly what you didn’t want, probably! Well, if you’d just calm down for a second I could explain to you that while yes, you are dead, the fact that everybody else also died means that nobody will ever outlive you!

You, you’re not excited? I mean, that’s the whole worst part– the fact that when you die you die knowing that life will continue on for everyone but not for you. And by dying all at the same time EVERYBODY WINS because nobody is missing out on anything. Unless you’re some kind of tall grass enthusiast. Ugh. Geez… this place is going to be a total snoozefest. I guess this is what the genie meant when he said that in 1,877 years I would regret choosing to be immortal because everyone on Earth would die and I would be all alone and while I might be able to make a go at Home Aloning it for a couple years or so, after a decade shit would start to get seriously depressing. Fucking genie doubletalk.7

Welp, guess I’ll just try to console myself by filling this waterpark with butterscotch and pumping whipped cream and cherries through the tubes to propel myself down into the ice cream swimming pool below. Slash alternatively, G~H~O~S~T ~ P~A~R~T~Y ~ !~!~!

 

Pinch Yourself
Ghosts can’t pinch. Not only can’t they pinch others (a foregone conclusion, unless ‘dermises’ is the Object of Desire of their Five Objects), but they can’t pinch themselves. They lost those nerves and muscles. Upon becoming ghosts, that whole chunk of stuff in the crook between your thumb and middle finger gets cut right out for use in creating longer flight golf balls. It is their lack of whatever this part of the body is called that creates their trademark mitten-like hands, also explaining why they’re so poor with at tactiles,8 are limited to only five objects.

 

Sheet Test
Hang a sheet. Do you have an irresistible need to fill it up with your essence? You are either a ghost or me at 13. Eyyyyy.

SRSLYtho, sorry mom.

 

Sleep Test
Do you sleep? Ghosts don’t. If you do, you’re not a ghost. But how can you be so sure (that you sleep)? SHORE, you think you’re sleeping, but really all you know for keeps is that while in your bed9 you lose track of yourself for 3-10 hours.10 If you’re a ghost and don’t know that you’re a ghost, you are a prime candidate for tricking yourself into thinking you are sleeping.11 So how do you test if you’ve gone to sleep? Simple: commit suicide.

If you wake up and it was aaaallllll a dream, then bang– you were asleep and you’re not a ghost.

If you wake up and you’re a ghost– you were a ghost all along!

Wait… well, in one form or another, I guess.

G*O*O*D L*U*C*K

 

 



1. Though, in the case of Family Matters it is actually the reverse– the last episode revealing that Carl Winslow had been the only survivor of a van crash he caused while driving drunk. The show had traced Carl’s attempt to win the forgiveness of his ghost family by raising and caring for them the way he had previously failed the living Winslows. When a family member forgave Carl, they would disappear forever as if they had never been there at all.
         A depressed loner, Carl’ s only allies in this journey were autistic neighbor boy Steve Urkel, whose touched condition allowed him to see and fully interact with the the ghost Winslows, and dimmest-of-wits Waldo Faldo, too dumb to notice that nobody was there and thus able to perceive that which wasn’t. An aside: I’m still pretty sad whenever I think about how Myra died in real life out of nowhere from some heart defect.

2. Don’t be a Gengar. Nobody likes a Gengar.

3. Donnie Wahlberg’d. Sidenote: make sure you don’t ever bring up M Night Shayamalan to a ghost. Oh brother, they will go the fuck on.

4. Seriously, is anyone else not entirely sure they’re not a ghost? Let’s make this happen.

5. All ghosts, if they stumble upon one, are obligated to help solve a murder. That shit just gets under their non-corporeal forms. (Could have gone sheets, but– as you’ll see later– ghosts just really like sheets, they aren’t actually made of them.) if they find a clue they a) need to, if possible, reposition it for maximum findability without sacrificing the integrity of the evidence, and b) need to find as many other clues as they can. It’s no reason they’re called nature’s detectives. No, serious. It is with no reason they’re called that– the nickname predates the term by a couple millennia. Weird, right?

6. I mean, if that’s your Deal

7. i.e. he told me twice just to make sure I really understood what I was getting into.

8. “Wanna make tactiles?” DAMN, call me cinnamon because I am on a roll/going on in five minutes (to strip).

9. or someone else’s bed, or someone else’s couch, or someone else’s floor; a park bench, a hospital, a jail cell, your jail cell; or on some faraway beach, in dark trees, on burning airlines, St. Elmo’s Fire– some real Brian Eno shit

10. a sidebar describing a condition in which, while sleeping, you don’t lose track of yourself — the opposite of dying. You still go to bed tired & still wake refreshed; you gain no additional control over your sleeping self nor can you see anything extra– it’s still dark behind your eyelids, you have no deeper insight into the weird thoughts/images that occur every REM cycle or so. You just know every second of those 8 hours. (Oh, that’s the other thing– you always sleep exactly 8 hours (barring outside interference (alarms count as outside interference– but if you don’t set one! So regular!))

11. how adorable would that be– the YouTube of a ghost tricking itself into thinking it is sleeping. Speaking its dreams to itself. Laying in bed, closing its eyes extra hard, rolling back and forth, making snore sounds. Singing (tiny, adorable) ghost songs about how it is asleep. Just 8 hours of that– making Andy Warhol look like a dumb jerk for having come up with so few sleep gags and here is this no-one-special ghost just coming up with bit after bit. Andy Warhol: good at wigs, shit at gags.