I realize it’s a rough economy, but if I were a drug dealer, I would find a way to advertise less likely to get me arrested than handing out flyers.
A conversation from this morning, as Mike was leaving for work.
JOEL: Why are the dogs so excited?
MIKE: They love us unconditionally.
JOEL: What’s that about? I mean, it’s not like we’re even that nice to them or anything.
MIKE: Well, I’m on my way. I love you conditionally.
JOEL: Me, too.
MIKE: I’ll be back late tonight, but I’ll bring a list of my conditions.
JOEL: Make sure to put it on the fridge so I can start ignoring them as soon as possible.
FOX, of course, never actually aired this interview, which choice, once one watches the video, is no less ironic for being unsurprising.
I recently bought a new computer and am using the occasion as an opportunity to organize my files. I have documents of all kinds all over my hard drive, and in going through them to figure out how many duplicates I have of how many drafts of how many ideas so that I can eventually set up a system that makes sense, I have come across any number of things I have no memory of writing. Here, for example, are the first three stanzas of a something I thankfully never finished.
Once upon a Tuesday dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a dull and dim expense report I’d seen before,
Dreaming then of Marrakesh or Rome, I felt a sudden pressure.
Thought I, “Time for a refresher?” peering at my boss’s door.
“Yes,” the answer; then I, standing, tiptoed by my boss’s door.
(Lush the carpet on the floor!)
Down the hall my steps went ringing, till I reached the chamber; flinging
Off my coat, I braved the swinging of the horrid metal door.
As I sat upon the shrine erected, scent all fresh and piny,
Quick I caught a vision tiny not too far above the floor.
Leaning over, curious, I saw three feet above the floor
Something I’d not seen before.
‘Twas an op’ning, small and rounded, in rough edges strictly bounded.
By its glory all astounded, I knew not what it was for.
Came a finger softly creeping through the puncture, gently sweeping
Left and right–I, quiet keeping, tapped my foot upon the floor.
Loud the echo in the silence of my foot upon the floor.
“What,” I thought, “is now in store?”
Two Alabama game wardens have devised a smoking send-off for avid hunters and gun enthusiasts: For a small fee, the pair will turn cremated ashes into ammunition that the deceased’s loved ones can fire at will.
At first glance this seems hideous but, to be completely honest, once I read the article I found the whole thing kind of touching.