Categories
humor

10 Militant Groups

10 Militant Groups I’d Laugh At:

10. Militant abortionists – aka Habitat for, well, not us

9. Militant apathists – I don’t care and you don’t either!

8. Militant creationists – Deathly afraid of big bang. Prudes.

7. Militant black coffeeists – Very jittery, beware these ones.

6. Militant euro-weenies – Comment? Je comprends pas. Parlez-vous francais?

5. Militant americans – I’d laugh at them, but they’d grab one of the 57 guns they own and shoot me.

4. Militant squirrels – Crookshanx laughs at these, mostly.

3. Militant militants – see number 5

2. Militant Mac-owners – I mean … c’mon, haven’t you lost yet?

1. Militant bloggers – Sure you write everyday, and have interesting things to say, and get like 200 hits an hour … but, but … bastards.

Categories
humor personal poetic

I’d rather be better than plastic

Another skipped day. My apologies.

Emily got back from Vegas. All is once again right and good in the world. Well, in Oberlin, anyway. Ideas escape me tonight. I’ll post something cute I wrote a couple weeks ago. A month ago? Time escapes me.

From the Kas journal: a rhyming thingie –

Curse Neitzsche for being so witty,
Liberace for being so gay.
Curse Mozart for writing a ditty,
and Shakespeare for penning a play.

Curse Flaubert for his eloquent diction,
and Germans, I curse all of them!
I doubt I could write science fiction
much better than Stanislaw Lem.

Curse Chopin for every sonata,
Rachmaninoff for each cantata,
for goodness curse Saint Liberata,
be better at something, I gotta!

At writing I’m just mediocre,
when singing I sound like a toad.
When painting I like to use ochre,
I curse all who’re talent “Van Gogh’ed”.

My rhymes are always an earsore,
my meter is half a beat late.
Originality, I need a size more,
my normalcy’s all that is great.

Yes, my mundanity’s simply fantastic,
and though it may make me seem spastic,
I’d rather be better than plastic
at being more normal than you.

Okay, so there’s that. Yeah….
Where in the world are you, Kas?

Categories
humor personal

In Soviet Russia …

In Soviet Russia, the dishes do you. *evil russian-accented cackle*

Okay, so I stole that from Emily, who posted it on our chalkboard (which is on the fridge in the kitchen) this morning as a subtle hint that some accidental harm (involving sharp utensils, I imagine) might befall me if the dishes were not sparklingly cleaned. Needless to say, the dishes are done … so that I might live on a little longer.

Some other fun “In Soviet Russia” phrases:

In Soviet Russia, the books read you.
In Soviet Russia, the movies watch you.
In Soviet Russia, the blogs write you.

In Soviet Russia, — yes, yes, okay … so it’s silly. That reminds me.

In Soviet Russia, the jokes tell you! HAhahahahaa….

Okay, someone please set my “dumb” switch to “off” please. Thanks. And off to work I go, wheeeeeeee.

Categories
humor

The cure for mad cows

News Flash: Spanish scientists believe they may have found the solution to mad cow disease, an infection caused by a rogue protein produced only by cannibalism. Though as yet unproven, geneticists believe that mixing the genes of those infected with mad cow disease with the genes of those infected with placid bull syndrome would cause both infections to cease, effectively killing two birds with one stone.

Placid bull syndrome is a long-standing, formerly rare ailment in Spain. The first recorded “placid bull” was none other than the lovable Ferdinand, who most people know from stories for his love of flowers and refusal to fight when thrown into the arena. For a time since, Ferdinand was put to stud, until the Spanish realized that “placid bull” was a dominant genetic characteristic, and was passed down to each and every one of Ferdinand’s offspring. Now, placid bull syndrome has become a major threat to the Spanish way of life. After all, what would Madonna do for a music video if she couldn’t have a matador in it? Where would Spain be without decadent bovine bloodshed? Needless to say, Spain is as concerned, if not moreso, with finding a cure to placid bull syndrome as they are to mad cow disease.

Skipping animal testing, scientists have jumped straight to testing on humans. Though results so far have produced only “bi-polar minotaurs”, scientists are sure that the cure is within their grasp, and that it is only a matter of time before humans are once again meek and docile, and bulls ferocious and mean.

On another front, PETA says the solution to mad cow disease is simple. In the words of PETA spokesperson, “Of course the cows are mad. They work hard for little or no wages, live in squalor, and have to put up with the occassional “tipping”. The cure for mad cow disease? A union!”

Categories
humor personal

The rolled spring bounty of General Tsao

Regarding the title of this blog, i.e. “Where is my muse?” (editor’s note: this was the subtitle of the old blog I had at www.blogstudio.com), I can now, officially report having found it. It was not, as I had perhaps expected it to be, located in a park, museum, work of art, literature, or in the depths of someone’s eyes. Rather, I found it in a chinese restaurant.

Yes, it was there, amidst the wonton, eggdrop, rolled spring bounty of general tsao, that my muse awaited me. And you might imagine, much to my amazement! Even so, it was no bolt of lightning, nor thunderclap, nor sudden clarity of thought. Rather, and rather abruptly, I was confronted by my muse when that most-delicate of chinese post-feast cuisine, my fortune cookie was presented to me, along of course with my check and an after-dinner mint. Expecting portents of doom, cute kitchen wisdom, or some chenglish garble, I was, and I admit it, a bit dismayed when my fortune read, simply, “I am your muse.”

I sat, stunned, for several minutes, contemplating the ramifications of this revelation. Should I move to China? Should I have gone to a thai restaurant instead? Who was General Tsao, anyway? Finally, and a bit furtively, I took both what was left of the cookie, and its fortune, and quickly devoured it. I got up, payed my check, ate my mint, and left the building, occassionally glancing over my shoulder for bad signs that I might soon be struck dead, or maimed by ducks.

Half an hour later, I had horrible indigestion. Perhaps ironically, it wasn’t even inspiring indigestion. I guess that may be for the best. So, at least for awhile longer, the title stands, and I’ll try to forget this whole fortune cookie thing ever happened. It’s better that way.