Tina Fey and the Flowers
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8:59 AM
7:41 PM
Just let it bee
- Why do girls do that? Wear rings on their toes...
- What, toe rings?
- Yeah, why?
- Well... Why not?
- I don't know... It's like wearing a hat on your knee.
7:41 PM
Just let it bee
- Why do girls do that? Wear rings on their toes...
- What, toe rings?
- Yeah, why?
- Well... Why not?
- I don't know... It's like wearing a hat on your knee.
6:31 PM
How many roads must a man walk down? 16? 42?
Much has been said on the irreverences of the wealthy. And yet, strangely enough, very little has been said of the sanity of the healthy.
I saw a man jogging early this morning. It might have been so early, in fact, it was really rather late last night. Indeed he was jogging, there's no doubt about that. I saw him and stared. I'm not usually rude and my actions don't get frowned upon much, but this man was jogging when the rest of the world should be sound asleep (except in certain parts of western Europe, of course, but that goes without saying). And so I saw him and thought the kind of thoughts you only think when immersed deep within your thinking, that he probably shouldn't be out here so early. Or so late. Depends on your outlook on life and the general state of the world.
Now, why should it be, dear reader, that this man feels the need to mock the very essence of human existence. Of course, to dwell within the parameters of one such statement, one should take a moment to consider that which should have been considered some little time ago. That a man indeed, is no greater than the sum of his powers, and that his powers are indeed no less than the subtraction of his will. And if that will should alas be frowned upon, one should resort to a course of action no bigger than a household average walnut.
So he was jogging and I was staring. In a way, I guess you could say, that he was jogging while I was not.
6:31 PM
How many roads must a man walk down? 16? 42?
Much has been said on the irreverences of the wealthy. And yet, strangely enough, very little has been said of the sanity of the healthy.
I saw a man jogging early this morning. It might have been so early, in fact, it was really rather late last night. Indeed he was jogging, there's no doubt about that. I saw him and stared. I'm not usually rude and my actions don't get frowned upon much, but this man was jogging when the rest of the world should be sound asleep (except in certain parts of western Europe, of course, but that goes without saying). And so I saw him and thought the kind of thoughts you only think when immersed deep within your thinking, that he probably shouldn't be out here so early. Or so late. Depends on your outlook on life and the general state of the world.
Now, why should it be, dear reader, that this man feels the need to mock the very essence of human existence. Of course, to dwell within the parameters of one such statement, one should take a moment to consider that which should have been considered some little time ago. That a man indeed, is no greater than the sum of his powers, and that his powers are indeed no less than the subtraction of his will. And if that will should alas be frowned upon, one should resort to a course of action no bigger than a household average walnut.
So he was jogging and I was staring. In a way, I guess you could say, that he was jogging while I was not.
7:26 PM
To swallow an owl
Alone was I when it came through the glass,
"Where am I?", thought my mind before much time could pass,
a shape had come out, I couldn't tell what it was,
but I knew it was real, and the room began to turn.
It halted and what was, was not no more.
Liquid color with bright sounds, decorated every wall.
And so soon as now those walls, where oh! so tall.
the shape began to speak, it spoke in words...
I'm pretty sure, but nothing seemed to make some sense.
Up got it, and to my side it crawled,
And to my amazement, I suddenly just yawned.
The thing got swallowed, sucked, more like it.
I don't know yet, but I think it was frightened.
Before my words could say a vowel,
that big dumb thing, turned into an towel.
Slowly it spoke, and wisely it expressed,
"I'm not a towel you daft punk, I am indeed an owl",
And it proceeded with grand eloquence,
to point out how everything is real (and how badly I was dressed),
As high as the wind can colorfully travel,
I knew it began, that trouble would unravel.
My mind was blown, and the owl departed
and then is when I knew, that over it was,
before it started.
Up next: Some other Woody Allen rip-off (not-very-good-rip off, I must add...)
"Where am I?", thought my mind before much time could pass,
a shape had come out, I couldn't tell what it was,
but I knew it was real, and the room began to turn.
It halted and what was, was not no more.
Liquid color with bright sounds, decorated every wall.
And so soon as now those walls, where oh! so tall.
the shape began to speak, it spoke in words...
I'm pretty sure, but nothing seemed to make some sense.
Up got it, and to my side it crawled,
And to my amazement, I suddenly just yawned.
The thing got swallowed, sucked, more like it.
I don't know yet, but I think it was frightened.
Before my words could say a vowel,
that big dumb thing, turned into an towel.
Slowly it spoke, and wisely it expressed,
"I'm not a towel you daft punk, I am indeed an owl",
And it proceeded with grand eloquence,
to point out how everything is real (and how badly I was dressed),
As high as the wind can colorfully travel,
I knew it began, that trouble would unravel.
My mind was blown, and the owl departed
and then is when I knew, that over it was,
before it started.
Up next: Some other Woody Allen rip-off (not-very-good-rip off, I must add...)
7:26 PM
To swallow an owl
Alone was I when it came through the glass,
"Where am I?", thought my mind before much time could pass,
a shape had come out, I couldn't tell what it was,
but I knew it was real, and the room began to turn.
It halted and what was, was not no more.
Liquid color with bright sounds, decorated every wall.
And so soon as now those walls, where oh! so tall.
the shape began to speak, it spoke in words...
I'm pretty sure, but nothing seemed to make some sense.
Up got it, and to my side it crawled,
And to my amazement, I suddenly just yawned.
The thing got swallowed, sucked, more like it.
I don't know yet, but I think it was frightened.
Before my words could say a vowel,
that big dumb thing, turned into an towel.
Slowly it spoke, and wisely it expressed,
"I'm not a towel you daft punk, I am indeed an owl",
And it proceeded with grand eloquence,
to point out how everything is real (and how badly I was dressed),
As high as the wind can colorfully travel,
I knew it began, that trouble would unravel.
My mind was blown, and the owl departed
and then is when I knew, that over it was,
before it started.
Up next: Some other Woody Allen rip-off (not-very-good-rip off, I must add...)
"Where am I?", thought my mind before much time could pass,
a shape had come out, I couldn't tell what it was,
but I knew it was real, and the room began to turn.
It halted and what was, was not no more.
Liquid color with bright sounds, decorated every wall.
And so soon as now those walls, where oh! so tall.
the shape began to speak, it spoke in words...
I'm pretty sure, but nothing seemed to make some sense.
Up got it, and to my side it crawled,
And to my amazement, I suddenly just yawned.
The thing got swallowed, sucked, more like it.
I don't know yet, but I think it was frightened.
Before my words could say a vowel,
that big dumb thing, turned into an towel.
Slowly it spoke, and wisely it expressed,
"I'm not a towel you daft punk, I am indeed an owl",
And it proceeded with grand eloquence,
to point out how everything is real (and how badly I was dressed),
As high as the wind can colorfully travel,
I knew it began, that trouble would unravel.
My mind was blown, and the owl departed
and then is when I knew, that over it was,
before it started.
Up next: Some other Woody Allen rip-off (not-very-good-rip off, I must add...)
4:58 PM
chicken
At some point something came from nothing...
Whether this makes sense or not is irrelevant. For this concept has had us bewildered for centuries. And, whether it’s true or not doesn’t matter, for there lies another similar yet more important question: Why, indeed, did the chicken cross the road?
It has been said that this chicken only wanted to get to the other side, and if so, the question would then be: Why? Why would a chicken absolutely need to get to the other side? Was there not enough satisfaction for it on the side it was already in?
Skeptics throughout history have questioned the actual existence of this chicken. They have justified its existence in popular thought, by stating that the idea of a chicken superseding its peers and migrating to a different setting helps people believe in themselves and in some way or another gives them hope in following their dreams.
However, we will not dig in deeper into this line of thought, simply because there are too many sociological implications in denying that which has become a symbol of our society and our history.
Now, who and where does this chicken come from? The chicken has been said to have been brought up in an atmosphere where a chicken’s right of freedom was withdrawn from them. You see, it was a very turbulent time in chicken history when this chicken was born.
Up next, maybe: A trip to the giftshop, but first, click here for more chicken
4:58 PM
chicken
At some point something came from nothing...
Whether this makes sense or not is irrelevant. For this concept has had us bewildered for centuries. And, whether it’s true or not doesn’t matter, for there lies another similar yet more important question: Why, indeed, did the chicken cross the road?
It has been said that this chicken only wanted to get to the other side, and if so, the question would then be: Why? Why would a chicken absolutely need to get to the other side? Was there not enough satisfaction for it on the side it was already in?
Skeptics throughout history have questioned the actual existence of this chicken. They have justified its existence in popular thought, by stating that the idea of a chicken superseding its peers and migrating to a different setting helps people believe in themselves and in some way or another gives them hope in following their dreams.
However, we will not dig in deeper into this line of thought, simply because there are too many sociological implications in denying that which has become a symbol of our society and our history.
Now, who and where does this chicken come from? The chicken has been said to have been brought up in an atmosphere where a chicken’s right of freedom was withdrawn from them. You see, it was a very turbulent time in chicken history when this chicken was born.
Up next, maybe: A trip to the giftshop, but first, click here for more chicken
9:14 AM
Tables are round, like a circle
A woman in a strange incomprehensible european accent asks me if I'm from South America. "No, I'm from Mexico". "Yeah, South America", she says. Well, it was either that or "Yeah, sounds like Erica"... Again, her accent was strange and that wouldn't make sense... so I assume she said 'south america'.
So I just sit back and quietly sigh, flabbergasted at her ignorance, not only for her inability to construct a coherent sentence, for her inability to tell the north from the south. Honestly, I can understand when they say Central America (because technically 1/3 of Mexico IS in Central America), but South??? Really? South? Come on...
And then my attention turns to the comedian we're supposed to be interviewing at this round table, although it rather seems like he's practicing a new routine on us. (It was good, I have to say). He's a short "latino" type... mexican they would say, though he seems a lot more Chicano to me... And I think man, how hard they have it. Because I don't see him as a fellow mexican, not by a long shot, and Americans certainly do not see them as americans either... so they're like their own community with no real country... the true citizens of the world, right? Immigrants who never fully really immigrated. Like they moved countries, but everything stayed the same...
And then I think, "yeah, this isn't new... they made a couple of movies about it... from American Me with the great admiral Adama, to, of course, Seleena (cause that's how they pronounced it, even though it clearly should be selEna.. like the 'e' in bed, not seed) and when I think about it, edward james olmos was also in that..." And I'm just not ¡t sure where that leaves Blade Runner... you know?
Up next: Chicken yo' mama
So I just sit back and quietly sigh, flabbergasted at her ignorance, not only for her inability to construct a coherent sentence, for her inability to tell the north from the south. Honestly, I can understand when they say Central America (because technically 1/3 of Mexico IS in Central America), but South??? Really? South? Come on...
And then my attention turns to the comedian we're supposed to be interviewing at this round table, although it rather seems like he's practicing a new routine on us. (It was good, I have to say). He's a short "latino" type... mexican they would say, though he seems a lot more Chicano to me... And I think man, how hard they have it. Because I don't see him as a fellow mexican, not by a long shot, and Americans certainly do not see them as americans either... so they're like their own community with no real country... the true citizens of the world, right? Immigrants who never fully really immigrated. Like they moved countries, but everything stayed the same...
And then I think, "yeah, this isn't new... they made a couple of movies about it... from American Me with the great admiral Adama, to, of course, Seleena (cause that's how they pronounced it, even though it clearly should be selEna.. like the 'e' in bed, not seed) and when I think about it, edward james olmos was also in that..." And I'm just not ¡t sure where that leaves Blade Runner... you know?
Up next: Chicken yo' mama
9:14 AM
Tables are round, like a circle
A woman in a strange incomprehensible european accent asks me if I'm from South America. "No, I'm from Mexico". "Yeah, South America", she says. Well, it was either that or "Yeah, sounds like Erica"... Again, her accent was strange and that wouldn't make sense... so I assume she said 'south america'.
So I just sit back and quietly sigh, flabbergasted at her ignorance, not only for her inability to construct a coherent sentence, for her inability to tell the north from the south. Honestly, I can understand when they say Central America (because technically 1/3 of Mexico IS in Central America), but South??? Really? South? Come on...
And then my attention turns to the comedian we're supposed to be interviewing at this round table, although it rather seems like he's practicing a new routine on us. (It was good, I have to say). He's a short "latino" type... mexican they would say, though he seems a lot more Chicano to me... And I think man, how hard they have it. Because I don't see him as a fellow mexican, not by a long shot, and Americans certainly do not see them as americans either... so they're like their own community with no real country... the true citizens of the world, right? Immigrants who never fully really immigrated. Like they moved countries, but everything stayed the same...
And then I think, "yeah, this isn't new... they made a couple of movies about it... from American Me with the great admiral Adama, to, of course, Seleena (cause that's how they pronounced it, even though it clearly should be selEna.. like the 'e' in bed, not seed) and when I think about it, edward james olmos was also in that..." And I'm just not ¡t sure where that leaves Blade Runner... you know?Up next: Chicken yo' mama
So I just sit back and quietly sigh, flabbergasted at her ignorance, not only for her inability to construct a coherent sentence, for her inability to tell the north from the south. Honestly, I can understand when they say Central America (because technically 1/3 of Mexico IS in Central America), but South??? Really? South? Come on...
And then my attention turns to the comedian we're supposed to be interviewing at this round table, although it rather seems like he's practicing a new routine on us. (It was good, I have to say). He's a short "latino" type... mexican they would say, though he seems a lot more Chicano to me... And I think man, how hard they have it. Because I don't see him as a fellow mexican, not by a long shot, and Americans certainly do not see them as americans either... so they're like their own community with no real country... the true citizens of the world, right? Immigrants who never fully really immigrated. Like they moved countries, but everything stayed the same...
And then I think, "yeah, this isn't new... they made a couple of movies about it... from American Me with the great admiral Adama, to, of course, Seleena (cause that's how they pronounced it, even though it clearly should be selEna.. like the 'e' in bed, not seed) and when I think about it, edward james olmos was also in that..." And I'm just not ¡t sure where that leaves Blade Runner... you know?
Up next: Chicken yo' mama
5:27 PM
Goldberg, the runner
Goldberg was a very avid runner. That should be clear by now. Everyday he’d wake up at the crack of dawn –let’s place that around 6 AM– and began his daily run through the neighborhood. Everyday he ran into (not literally, of course) the same people. Mr. Swanson, the doughnut shop guy who offered him a free coffee if he, for one day, would not run. Mr. Jensen, one of his neighbours down the street, was always backing out of his drive-way on his way to the office when Goldberg passed by.
Golberg just absoluletly LOVED runnning. There was nothing in the world he would rather do, than run. And when he wasn’t running he was sleeping. Or eating. And when he was sleeping he dreamt of running and when he was eating... well, he just ate. No one could really understand (or even tried to understand, for that matter) how much he actually loved running.
If destiny exists… this was his. To run.
One day however, as the sun was beginning to come up behind some mountains, Goldberg woke up and noticed something weird. He couldn’t run. He simply couldn’t.
See, his running ability had for some inexplicable reason decided to go in a fishing trip to the deep rivers of the Amazon rainforest for a week or two, leaving Goldberg with nothing left but his walking ability (which wasn’t really Golberg’s favorite means of transportation).
What was Golberg to do now? He tried playing Nintendo for a while, but soon gave up after being eaten ten times by the horrible monsters just outside level two.
He decided to take up painting. But that didn’t work because, as it turned out, Golberg’s painting ability was about as big as a seagull’s chances of telling you the exact address and phone number of that pub in Islington where they serve stuffed seagull in shrimp juice. Which, in case you are wondering, are not very good.
Golberg was devastated. He went around town picturing himself running along the boulevard, running to the movies, running and having a maltshake... he pictured himself and his runnning ability having fun like in the old days.
That’s when it happened. He realized what he had to do. He had come to the conclusion that he and his running ability had to spend some time apart in order for Goldberg to find other things to do. What took him so long to get to this conclusion is beyond me and any of the sociologists who have investigated Goldberg’s life.
He decided he was going to call up his other abilities – the one’s he’d lost a bit of touch with since he began running – to see what they had been up to. He tried his jumping ability first, but he realized in order to jump he had to run, so he dropped that. Then he tried his ‘walking with his hands’ ability, but soon enough realized it was a pretty silly thing to do. Especially on a Thursday, which that day just happened to be. That’s when he decided he would try his reading ability. So he took up an old dusty book he had lying around somewhere and began reading it. This was it, he finally found something he enjoyed almost as much as running. The book was actually very, very good. Or so it seemed at least, until he got to the second sentence and after being completely bored by it, decided to quit reading too.
He couldn’t do anything. He was missing his running too much. The seconds seemed longer, the minutes seemed longer, the hours seemed longer, the... well, you get the idea.
Nothing he did seemed to get his mind off the idea that he missed running.
He tried pretending he could run, but that only made him miss it more. He tried calling it on the phone, but abilities can’t really use a phone – they don’t really have the opposing thumb, you see. So now, Goldberg had two problems. Well, no, not really, just the one actually – but I’m told that line is commonly used, and I thought it might fit in nicely here.
What Goldberg now decided to do, was sleep. And so, he hid himself under the sheets of his italian bed and slept, and slept, and slept. About six or ten days later, he woke up and right there next to him, standing in a Dolce & Gabana sweater, smiling the kind of smile you only get out of dumb teeenagers after they get your order at McDonald’s right, was his running ability!! And so, he ran and ran happily ever after.
The moral of this story:
Sometimes inspiration ALSO takes trips to exotic lands... even if it happens very close to the end of a story.
Up next: And thus, tables are round (you'll see how much shorter than this one it is), but first, a picture of a moose:
Golberg just absoluletly LOVED runnning. There was nothing in the world he would rather do, than run. And when he wasn’t running he was sleeping. Or eating. And when he was sleeping he dreamt of running and when he was eating... well, he just ate. No one could really understand (or even tried to understand, for that matter) how much he actually loved running.
If destiny exists… this was his. To run.
One day however, as the sun was beginning to come up behind some mountains, Goldberg woke up and noticed something weird. He couldn’t run. He simply couldn’t.
See, his running ability had for some inexplicable reason decided to go in a fishing trip to the deep rivers of the Amazon rainforest for a week or two, leaving Goldberg with nothing left but his walking ability (which wasn’t really Golberg’s favorite means of transportation).
What was Golberg to do now? He tried playing Nintendo for a while, but soon gave up after being eaten ten times by the horrible monsters just outside level two.
He decided to take up painting. But that didn’t work because, as it turned out, Golberg’s painting ability was about as big as a seagull’s chances of telling you the exact address and phone number of that pub in Islington where they serve stuffed seagull in shrimp juice. Which, in case you are wondering, are not very good.
Golberg was devastated. He went around town picturing himself running along the boulevard, running to the movies, running and having a maltshake... he pictured himself and his runnning ability having fun like in the old days.
That’s when it happened. He realized what he had to do. He had come to the conclusion that he and his running ability had to spend some time apart in order for Goldberg to find other things to do. What took him so long to get to this conclusion is beyond me and any of the sociologists who have investigated Goldberg’s life.
He decided he was going to call up his other abilities – the one’s he’d lost a bit of touch with since he began running – to see what they had been up to. He tried his jumping ability first, but he realized in order to jump he had to run, so he dropped that. Then he tried his ‘walking with his hands’ ability, but soon enough realized it was a pretty silly thing to do. Especially on a Thursday, which that day just happened to be. That’s when he decided he would try his reading ability. So he took up an old dusty book he had lying around somewhere and began reading it. This was it, he finally found something he enjoyed almost as much as running. The book was actually very, very good. Or so it seemed at least, until he got to the second sentence and after being completely bored by it, decided to quit reading too.
He couldn’t do anything. He was missing his running too much. The seconds seemed longer, the minutes seemed longer, the hours seemed longer, the... well, you get the idea.
Nothing he did seemed to get his mind off the idea that he missed running.
He tried pretending he could run, but that only made him miss it more. He tried calling it on the phone, but abilities can’t really use a phone – they don’t really have the opposing thumb, you see. So now, Goldberg had two problems. Well, no, not really, just the one actually – but I’m told that line is commonly used, and I thought it might fit in nicely here.
What Goldberg now decided to do, was sleep. And so, he hid himself under the sheets of his italian bed and slept, and slept, and slept. About six or ten days later, he woke up and right there next to him, standing in a Dolce & Gabana sweater, smiling the kind of smile you only get out of dumb teeenagers after they get your order at McDonald’s right, was his running ability!! And so, he ran and ran happily ever after.
The moral of this story:
Sometimes inspiration ALSO takes trips to exotic lands... even if it happens very close to the end of a story.
Up next: And thus, tables are round (you'll see how much shorter than this one it is), but first, a picture of a moose:
5:27 PM
Goldberg, the runner
Goldberg was a very avid runner. That should be clear by now. Everyday he’d wake up at the crack of dawn –let’s place that around 6 AM– and began his daily run through the neighborhood. Everyday he ran into (not literally, of course) the same people. Mr. Swanson, the doughnut shop guy who offered him a free coffee if he, for one day, would not run. Mr. Jensen, one of his neighbours down the street, was always backing out of his drive-way on his way to the office when Goldberg passed by.
Golberg just absoluletly LOVED runnning. There was nothing in the world he would rather do, than run. And when he wasn’t running he was sleeping. Or eating. And when he was sleeping he dreamt of running and when he was eating... well, he just ate. No one could really understand (or even tried to understand, for that matter) how much he actually loved running.
If destiny exists… this was his. To run.
One day however, as the sun was beginning to come up behind some mountains, Goldberg woke up and noticed something weird. He couldn’t run. He simply couldn’t.
See, his running ability had for some inexplicable reason decided to go in a fishing trip to the deep rivers of the Amazon rainforest for a week or two, leaving Goldberg with nothing left but his walking ability (which wasn’t really Golberg’s favorite means of transportation).
What was Golberg to do now? He tried playing Nintendo for a while, but soon gave up after being eaten ten times by the horrible monsters just outside level two.
He decided to take up painting. But that didn’t work because, as it turned out, Golberg’s painting ability was about as big as a seagull’s chances of telling you the exact address and phone number of that pub in Islington where they serve stuffed seagull in shrimp juice. Which, in case you are wondering, are not very good.
Golberg was devastated. He went around town picturing himself running along the boulevard, running to the movies, running and having a maltshake... he pictured himself and his runnning ability having fun like in the old days.
That’s when it happened. He realized what he had to do. He had come to the conclusion that he and his running ability had to spend some time apart in order for Goldberg to find other things to do. What took him so long to get to this conclusion is beyond me and any of the sociologists who have investigated Goldberg’s life.
He decided he was going to call up his other abilities – the one’s he’d lost a bit of touch with since he began running – to see what they had been up to. He tried his jumping ability first, but he realized in order to jump he had to run, so he dropped that. Then he tried his ‘walking with his hands’ ability, but soon enough realized it was a pretty silly thing to do. Especially on a Thursday, which that day just happened to be. That’s when he decided he would try his reading ability. So he took up an old dusty book he had lying around somewhere and began reading it. This was it, he finally found something he enjoyed almost as much as running. The book was actually very, very good. Or so it seemed at least, until he got to the second sentence and after being completely bored by it, decided to quit reading too.
He couldn’t do anything. He was missing his running too much. The seconds seemed longer, the minutes seemed longer, the hours seemed longer, the... well, you get the idea.
Nothing he did seemed to get his mind off the idea that he missed running.
He tried pretending he could run, but that only made him miss it more. He tried calling it on the phone, but abilities can’t really use a phone – they don’t really have the opposing thumb, you see. So now, Goldberg had two problems. Well, no, not really, just the one actually – but I’m told that line is commonly used, and I thought it might fit in nicely here.
What Goldberg now decided to do, was sleep. And so, he hid himself under the sheets of his italian bed and slept, and slept, and slept. About six or ten days later, he woke up and right there next to him, standing in a Dolce & Gabana sweater, smiling the kind of smile you only get out of dumb teeenagers after they get your order at McDonald’s right, was his running ability!! And so, he ran and ran happily ever after.
The moral of this story:
Sometimes inspiration ALSO takes trips to exotic lands... even if it happens very close to the end of a story.
Up next: And thus, tables are round (you'll see how much shorter than this one it is), but first, a picture of a moose:
Golberg just absoluletly LOVED runnning. There was nothing in the world he would rather do, than run. And when he wasn’t running he was sleeping. Or eating. And when he was sleeping he dreamt of running and when he was eating... well, he just ate. No one could really understand (or even tried to understand, for that matter) how much he actually loved running.
If destiny exists… this was his. To run.
One day however, as the sun was beginning to come up behind some mountains, Goldberg woke up and noticed something weird. He couldn’t run. He simply couldn’t.
See, his running ability had for some inexplicable reason decided to go in a fishing trip to the deep rivers of the Amazon rainforest for a week or two, leaving Goldberg with nothing left but his walking ability (which wasn’t really Golberg’s favorite means of transportation).
What was Golberg to do now? He tried playing Nintendo for a while, but soon gave up after being eaten ten times by the horrible monsters just outside level two.
He decided to take up painting. But that didn’t work because, as it turned out, Golberg’s painting ability was about as big as a seagull’s chances of telling you the exact address and phone number of that pub in Islington where they serve stuffed seagull in shrimp juice. Which, in case you are wondering, are not very good.
Golberg was devastated. He went around town picturing himself running along the boulevard, running to the movies, running and having a maltshake... he pictured himself and his runnning ability having fun like in the old days.
That’s when it happened. He realized what he had to do. He had come to the conclusion that he and his running ability had to spend some time apart in order for Goldberg to find other things to do. What took him so long to get to this conclusion is beyond me and any of the sociologists who have investigated Goldberg’s life.
He decided he was going to call up his other abilities – the one’s he’d lost a bit of touch with since he began running – to see what they had been up to. He tried his jumping ability first, but he realized in order to jump he had to run, so he dropped that. Then he tried his ‘walking with his hands’ ability, but soon enough realized it was a pretty silly thing to do. Especially on a Thursday, which that day just happened to be. That’s when he decided he would try his reading ability. So he took up an old dusty book he had lying around somewhere and began reading it. This was it, he finally found something he enjoyed almost as much as running. The book was actually very, very good. Or so it seemed at least, until he got to the second sentence and after being completely bored by it, decided to quit reading too.
He couldn’t do anything. He was missing his running too much. The seconds seemed longer, the minutes seemed longer, the hours seemed longer, the... well, you get the idea.
Nothing he did seemed to get his mind off the idea that he missed running.
He tried pretending he could run, but that only made him miss it more. He tried calling it on the phone, but abilities can’t really use a phone – they don’t really have the opposing thumb, you see. So now, Goldberg had two problems. Well, no, not really, just the one actually – but I’m told that line is commonly used, and I thought it might fit in nicely here.
What Goldberg now decided to do, was sleep. And so, he hid himself under the sheets of his italian bed and slept, and slept, and slept. About six or ten days later, he woke up and right there next to him, standing in a Dolce & Gabana sweater, smiling the kind of smile you only get out of dumb teeenagers after they get your order at McDonald’s right, was his running ability!! And so, he ran and ran happily ever after.
The moral of this story:
Sometimes inspiration ALSO takes trips to exotic lands... even if it happens very close to the end of a story.
Up next: And thus, tables are round (you'll see how much shorter than this one it is), but first, a picture of a moose:
5:11 PM
Affleck rides elevators just like the rest of us
Despite rumors you may or may not have heard, Ben Affleck is quite tall. And yet, I ran into him on an elevator last week. True story. The elevator doors opened and there he was, against all odds, standing. I recognized him immediately, and almost told him so. That I remembered him from such films as Good Will Hunting, Armageddon and as the director of the recent Gone Baby Gone. And I gotta say, I'm a pair of golden shorts away from going all Mango on him... what can I say? I like the guy... not like, like (not that there's anything wrong with it) but you know.
I then remembered something I wrote sometime ago that has almost absolutely nothing to do with it.
"Once upon a... well, no, not really just last night. I day-dreamed a dream so full in thought and rich in texture, that I wondered why it is I didn't do it much more often. But let's get straight to the point. So, in the background Gloria Estefan sung a song of Caribbean love, or so I thought... I wasn't paying much attention, you see. And as we sat in that crowed empty room, Salma Hayek strolled in holding in her hand a bottle of champagne. She poured a cup for Robert, Joaquin and me (Rodriguez and Phoenix, that is). As the liquid got poured down into our glasses I realized where it was I was. The inside of a great big room with a bunch of tables and chairs. Oh! Gloria finished singing and she goes backstage to meet with her bottle of water to refresh her long-lasting throat, but that doesn't matter... Anyway, Robert kept drinking away, and just as he was about to light a cigarette, Kenny G suddenly threw his flute-thingy at me! I was so surprised I just had to run over and give Sarah Michelle one big kiss right there in front of everyone. Obviously, no-one appreciates it when somebody else kisses their girlfriend so Freddy Prince starting chasing me and Jena Malone all around the vacuum cleaner (I never quite understood why). So anyway, there I was, sitting on my chair looking at the stars when all of a sudden Gwyneth asked me what the hell I was looking at! Of course, I did the only thing I could, I ran over to Matt (Damon, of course) and asked to borrow his cell-phone, with which I called Sarah Jessica and asked her why she didn't come. Out of the blue and ordinary a white guy with a very messy hairdo came over to me, and said to me "I know Kung-Fu"... I, of course, couldn't care less and just walked away. So now, there I was, talking to a plant when Helen Hunt came over to me and asked me if I'd seen her Oscar, so I turned over to this De La Hoya fellow and told him Helen was looking for him (I didn't even know they got along). I walked into a tent and saw Heath Ledger, Jack Nicholson and Jamie Kennedy sharing a joint and decided to leave them alone.
As you might guess by now I was pretty tired, and so I decided to borrow John Lennon's glasses to pour Stevie Wonder a bottle of vodka, of course he ALSO asked me what I was looking at.
As it turns out all these people where here to see me. I found out when Brad, Kirsten, Ed and the little monkey from Ace Ventura asked me if I knew what all the fuss was about. I answered it was about me. Then, something apparently happened, I got bored and left the party with MonkeyBone hanging on to my leg.".
Up next: The story of Goldberg, the runner.
5:11 PM
Affleck rides elevators just like the rest of us
Despite rumors you may or may not have heard, Ben Affleck is quite tall. And yet, I ran into him on an elevator last week. True story. The elevator doors opened and there he was, against all odds, standing. I recognized him immediately, and almost told him so. That I remembered him from such films as Good Will Hunting, Armageddon and as the director of the recent Gone Baby Gone. And I gotta say, I'm a pair of golden shorts away from going all Mango on him... what can I say? I like the guy... not like, like (not that there's anything wrong with it) but you know.
I then remembered something I wrote sometime ago that has almost absolutely nothing to do with it.
"Once upon a... well, no, not really just last night. I day-dreamed a dream so full in thought and rich in texture, that I wondered why it is I didn't do it much more often. But let's get straight to the point. So, in the background Gloria Estefan sung a song of Caribbean love, or so I thought... I wasn't paying much attention, you see. And as we sat in that crowed empty room, Salma Hayek strolled in holding in her hand a bottle of champagne. She poured a cup for Robert, Joaquin and me (Rodriguez and Phoenix, that is). As the liquid got poured down into our glasses I realized where it was I was. The inside of a great big room with a bunch of tables and chairs. Oh! Gloria finished singing and she goes backstage to meet with her bottle of water to refresh her long-lasting throat, but that doesn't matter... Anyway, Robert kept drinking away, and just as he was about to light a cigarette, Kenny G suddenly threw his flute-thingy at me! I was so surprised I just had to run over and give Sarah Michelle one big kiss right there in front of everyone. Obviously, no-one appreciates it when somebody else kisses their girlfriend so Freddy Prince starting chasing me and Jena Malone all around the vacuum cleaner (I never quite understood why). So anyway, there I was, sitting on my chair looking at the stars when all of a sudden Gwyneth asked me what the hell I was looking at! Of course, I did the only thing I could, I ran over to Matt (Damon, of course) and asked to borrow his cell-phone, with which I called Sarah Jessica and asked her why she didn't come. Out of the blue and ordinary a white guy with a very messy hairdo came over to me, and said to me "I know Kung-Fu"... I, of course, couldn't care less and just walked away. So now, there I was, talking to a plant when Helen Hunt came over to me and asked me if I'd seen her Oscar, so I turned over to this De La Hoya fellow and told him Helen was looking for him (I didn't even know they got along). I walked into a tent and saw Heath Ledger, Jack Nicholson and Jamie Kennedy sharing a joint and decided to leave them alone.
As you might guess by now I was pretty tired, and so I decided to borrow John Lennon's glasses to pour Stevie Wonder a bottle of vodka, of course he ALSO asked me what I was looking at.
As it turns out all these people where here to see me. I found out when Brad, Kirsten, Ed and the little monkey from Ace Ventura asked me if I knew what all the fuss was about. I answered it was about me. Then, something apparently happened, I got bored and left the party with MonkeyBone hanging on to my leg.".
Up next: The story of Goldberg, the runner.
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