Sunday, June 6, 2010

Classically trained in non-classical ballroom dancinG

Life really is just a series; a killer lineup of cereal commercials all promising sugar and mother’s approval. The only difference between a Monday and a Friday is that the latter has 2% more fat and brighter lighting. Everything seems full of potential. Since days are just concepts with labels, for simplicity I just call every day a Friday and kick my socks off with a weakened state of mind.

When a friend says that corn is in everything and is the most ingrained ingredient in the gradient from Snapple to spaghetti, I tell him I could go without it for a month – and it is well understood that I will. When another asks where I derived my precise approach to invading personal space, I inform that I was classically trained in non-classical ballroom dancing. When an acquaintance asks me the dirtiest word I know, I write it in cursive. When my boss asks me what I want to be, I tell him Chief Executive Officer… and that better come with a corner office.

Zhang it! and I are studying for the GMAT and LSAT, unsure about our futures but sure that our brains could use a steady diet of punishment. A word I learned recently: perspicuity. Thought I would pass along the knowledge. Glad I could clear things up.

To thank my wrist for keeping me digitally connected all these years, I went around punching sand piles. I was hoping to find the runaway injury that had been sadly missing from my life. I finally found it in a particularly hard pile during a volleyball match, the only positive result being that xrays came back negative and the doctor told me I have “dinosaur” bones. I took this to mean that I have every excuse to snap my teeth when I am feeling hungry, so now I don’t really talk to waiters so much as I point and the menu and scissor my incisors rapidly. Of course, he might have just meant that I have hollow bones. Or a hollow soul.

I think I might get a tattoo of a snarling dog on my back and a homeless ant holding a Feed Me? sign on the web of my right hand. That way when someone pats me on the back I can look over my shoulder and scream “Don’t bite!”, and when someone shakes my hand I can warn them not to shake the hand that needs. Realistically I’ll probably just get an American flag eating an eagle holding an iPhone in his talons right over my heart.

 Nice Clothes, but don't Thread on Me

Oh! nice smooth transition, because I just got an Incredible new phone which speciates from the Android family. It was a natural selection, being that I can’t turn down an attractive, svelte, smart and hand-holdable babe that never worries about looking good in a dress. It can take pictures, but not of itself… that would be against the rules we have set up and I can’t have it advertising itself all over the internet. If you see any suspicious pics let me know: it looks like this.

I’m all moved in to my new house. I now have a pool and a dog and a ghost to take care of. A few spiders. Frogs. Wandering neighbors. Catty paperboys. And utilities.

In conclusion, synthetic cells are evil. We shouldn’t be playing God in Petri dishes - we should be playing Frisbee with our dogs with fine china dishes. We should be feeding China mission missiles, covering the country with religious pamphlets and hand-me-down oil. We should be teaching our kids to fight fair and trust clowns. Our lives are getting out of hand so we should start a breeding program for people with bigger hands. I have all the solutions, people just need to start asking better questions. It’s not that hard. That’s what ‘Sheed said.


  1. Yet again another cleverly worded anecdote.

    "I have all the solutions, people just need to start asking better questions. It’s not that hard."

    Hmmm...Alas, I fear it's not that easy.

  2. Alas, I fear...wgk is mia in y2k10.


  3. p.s. - I have Bandit the Border Collie hanging from a leash over the Mississippi. Unless you want your Daily Puppy column to be replaced with an obituary, I suggest you write another post. Post haste.

    Misssssster Sssssnakeman