St. Barbara-Glass.
Monks on Segways, with fire on the top of their heads, playing “Lightning” by Philip Glass. Good night, everybody. We’ll start storyboarding the next chapter of the internet tomorrow because this one just ended.
You can try to write a poem.
I made you, you dear reader, a poem about the ocean. It is not safe for work. Yes. That is how good it is.
Thank you to @PrashanthK and @dtrinh for contributing.
“Whew, it’s doing a require_gem.”
Ruby on robots hits the Internet.
- “Oh no, that robot is going to kill us!”
- “Don’t worry! That robot runs on Ruby. All we have to do is walk briskly away.”
Sueño.
On the first day of school, Jark wandered the brightly lit hallways absentmindedly, going from one class to another in a school where the ceilings stretched kilometers above his head with large windowpanes as walls, giving him the dizzying notion that he was a stuck in a large greenhouse of education where ideas bounced endlessly from one end of this frightening building to the other without any escape. He, unlike the others who marched forward and seemingly uncomprehending the extraordinary architecture of this singular school, stared upward as he walked from class to class to class at the great sky, but especially at night when he, somehow, could see the stars and the rain.
At the beginning of the end of school, Jark navigated his way down the strange corridors, loud with the usual commotion of people walking and talking and stopping and kissing, still looking up. Thunderclouds had moved overhead and let their burden of rain and water down upon the ceiling of the magnificent greenhouse. It was dark outside save for the brief glimpse of lightning that illuminated the trees and owls outside with such great ferocity, the owls that swept ever closer to the glass dome. He eventually found the exit doors that stood at end of the school where the high ceilings that met in a triangle and formed two mountain-like slopes rose even higher, as sort of a climax to a great story.
The doors led to an interlude, a thin strip of room that buffered between the great outside and the great inside, a room that was cooler or warmer than the inside depending on the weather outside. Here was the room that collected the must in which the winds were blowing. On each side of the room was a great ledge, as if constructed for some gigantic tabby cat to perch and groom in the sunlight of better days. However, on each side, parallel to each of the long walls, was a toilet. Each toilet faced each other so that as you crossed from the inside to the outside, you would see a toilet, double take, turn around, and then see a different toilet. And then the rain would hit your face in a sloppy, surprise embrace.
Jark wiped the rain from his eyes and shuffled toward the buses and, finding himself late, began to run. He and Arvis, a brash and loud kid, arrived at the steps of Bus L451 at the same time. The bus, large like the school, was built like an airplane. It too was made of glass from the chairs upward and, in the darkness, you could spy upon the people sitting in the bus, tightly packed and bored and lifeless under the flickering fluorescent light. But they could not see you. As Jark raced to beat Arvis, a small and fragile kid tripped on the enormous bus steps that led up the equivalent of three flights of stairs. Jark, arriving first, reached to help the child who had begun to whimper softly and bravely at the same time, if it is possible and I hope it is. Arvis rushed past him to take the second-to-last seat and Jark, resigned to his fate, climbed off the stairs to wait under the Carpool Awning at a great section beside the road, far from both the Bus Lot and the main school building.
He saw the girl there, beautiful and young and small, standing there in the wind. She too waited for her car to arrive as her long hair billowed in the wind, whipping the books she carried. Jark saw her, and only a stretch of wet pavement and wet rain separated them. He began to run.
Gil.
Gil’s the type of person who thought he could, as a child, get friends simply by following an algorithm and, in addition, the type of person who, upon realizing that no such algorithm worked, dedicated his life to finding one.
Misdirection.
He leaned back on his stool, a stool standing by the quietly lit bar counter with the grizzled, old man bartender affectionately drying the beer mugs. He had leaned back to get a better view. Of what? His thoughts, perhaps. She, a sultry patron, softly placed a soft hand on his chest. Startled, he looked to her, and then to her hand. He started to lean back forward, but then she pushed him backwards onto the floor.
Say, everybody! Come over here!
And now, another installment in our ongoing investigation of underground cow lives. Remember the first one? Yes you do. Yes you do.
Our heroes are escaping from the ruthless clutches of a radioactive but educational cow. When! …
Flashback.
“Mirror, mirror on the wall: Where will I be in 30 yall?”
The mirror did not reply nor show that it was anything but an ordinary mirror.
“Mirror: alias ‘yall’ to ‘years’.”
The mirror stirred. “I’m not a magic mirror, Jark.”
“I know.”
“I can’t tell the future, Jark.”
“I know.”
Jark regarded the mirror. The mirror regarded Jark.
“I’m not a retard,” said Jark, feelings bruised.
“I know,” said the mirror.
“I have a Ph. D.”
“I know.”
“I just can’t find it.”
“You hung me up over your Ph. D.”
“Really?” “Yes. Go ahead and push me up and see.”
Jark tried.
“Jark, you superglued me to the wall. Stop trying.”
Jark regarded the mirror. The mirror regarded Jark.
“I’m not a retard,” Jark repeated.
“Jark, you’re not going to live for thirty years.”
“I thought you weren’t magic.”
“Jark, I’m not. I’m an asteroid.”
“What?”
“Jark, now I’m a meteorite.”
“What?”
The meteorite hit Jark at thirty miles per hour; it broke both his legs.
Doesn’t fly with the disabled guy.
“I don’t understand.” “What shall I do?” “Who will help me?”
These questions and more are answered by IntricacyMan! Today, IntricacyMan pays a visit to Dark Bob.
“Dark Bob is in distress. Quick! To the IntricUV!”
IntricacyMan bursts through Dark Bob’s door.
“Hey, that’s my door! I paid a—Gah! Once again, you have bested me, IntricacyMan!” said Dark Bob.
“I came as soon as I heard,” said IntricacyMan, sitting down the chair and unwittingly scuffing Dark Bob’s table.
Dark Bob twitched and then smiled evilly. In a paper-thin voice, he asked, “What do you know about the intricacies of … pain?”
But IntricacyMan was not listening because he was reading. Reading … the newspaper.
“Have you seen this?” he said, munching on a doughnut, “This Russian ballet troupe is very good.”
Dark Bob waves impatiently. “Yes, yes, now what can you tell me about … pa—”
“No, I mean it. This troupe is very good. Did you know that ballet is a highly exalted art in Russia?”
“—in.”
“It’s true. It’s immensely fascinating. Some of these people have practiced since age 5. Can you believe that? Imagine. Doing ballet for over half your life.” IntricacyMan finished his donut.
“Well, that does it for me. See you around,” he said, walking out the back door, tracking mud all over Dark Bob’s lair, which was also his house.
Stay tuned next week for more adventures of IntricacyMan!
Swedish paparazzi opulence (once The thong song).
The world isn’t a very happy place,
It could use more elves and slightly less mace.
Could we be happy, would we get along?
Maybe we should all wear thongs.
Suck it, Kafka.
Hear ye, hear ye. Case number 1930 will now self-actualize.
Judge: One of you: present your opening.
Prosecution: We will, through persuasive and undoubtful evidence, show that the opposing cousel is only a bloke.
Murmurs from the courtroom
Judge: In light of the fact that you are skirting on contempt of court: Do you, prosecution, have evidence to back up this use of British slang?
Prosecution: Yes, Your Honor, we—
Judge: Well, do you? Because I'll charge you with contempt.
Prosecution: Yes, Your—
Judge: Oh, I will. Push me and I'll push back. I'm like Newton's Third Law, damnit.
Defense: Objection. This conversation bears no relevancy.
Judge: I charge the defense with “Who died and made your the relevancy police?”
Defense: But, Your Honor—
Judge: I charge defense again with “I’m like rubber, you’re like glue.”
Defense: With all due respect, this is a ridicul—
Judge: I charge you with “I know what you are but what am I?”
Defense: I charge you with calling me fat!
Judge: Dibs on gaytard.
Defense: I get idling.
Judge: Unprofessionalism.
Defense: Bad fashion sense.
Judge: Being cool—constipated, overweighted out-of-style loser
Prosecution: I would like to interject some words.
Judge: Please do so.
Prosecution: Bass fish turn blue at sunlight.
Judge: Yes.
Prosecution: Thank you. May I approach the bench?
Judge: Do I have to repeat myself?
Prosecution approaches
Prosecution: What nice wood you have.