Has anyone ever noticed that hydrogen peroxide always comes in that same brown plastic bottle? The brand may differ, but the bottle remains the same. I depend on that brown plastic bottle and its contents to remove the blood stains I so frequently get on my clothes. Lately, my hand has fallen victim to an Exacto knife. But now my pirate costume has authentic blood stains. I should probably get a sword to go along with it. A plastic one. I could really injure myself with a real one.
I helped build a deck. I actually built something. With screws and tools and everything. Today I celebrated by sitting on the deck in the sweltering heat and drinking tea and eating beef jerky (carne seca en espanol) for about an hour. After that, I just couldn't take it anymore and went inside. I'm very soft when it comes to heat toleration.
I have become strangely active. I just want to go outside and run. But it's hot out there. And at night it's dark and scary and there are scary things out there like armadillos and possums. I think my recent burst of energy is from all those chicken pitas I've been eating. Lots of protein, you know.
I have recently been introduced to the joys of Project Runway. I had never seen it until yesterday when Ben invited me over to watch it and drink margaritas. Not wanting to miss out on free booze, I went over there, and I must say I was not disappointed. That Project Runway is an absolutely delightful show. I feel compelled to watch it next week. Apparently people designing clothes is good TV. Bravo, Bravo Channel.
This weekend begins the first weekend installment of the Degrassi Every Episode Ever Marathon. I know what I'll be doing from Friday to Sunday.
I find myself dancing more and more each day. It's a sickness. Darn you, Ms New Booty. And darn you, Promiscuous. And darn you most of all, Sexy Back. I don't even like these songs, but I just can't stop myself. I'm ashamed at my behavior. I should stop listening to the radio or watching TV/commercials or talking to anyone or riding in cars with people.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
25 Jul 2006: Vegas para ancianos
Branson, Missouri is like Las Vegas for old people, minus the casinos. There is some weird stuff in the place. But, I know you must be wondering what I did there. The suspense is killing you. I can tell.
Wakeboarding: I don't know if what I did can technically be construed as wakeboarding, but I tried. It was more like me faceplanting myself into the water repeatedly. I can't do it, but I know how. Maybe I'll write a book about it. Well, maybe after I regain the usage of my limbs that the wakeboarding so violently stole.
Pool: Ben and I did lots of swimming and hottubbing and getting our drink on. We pretty much polished off a giant bottle of wine while stewing in that hot water. Once, we went to the front desk at the pool to ask for a plastic cup to split up our wine. Ben sets the very large plastic cup we already have on the counter and asks the guy working there for a plastic cup. The guy says "That's a plastic cup." Ben replies, "Oh, really. I want another one."
The Ten Commandments: On the way home, we passed God and Country Inspirational Gardens, and there was a man power-washing 10 foot Ten Commandments.
Mennonites: I didn't see any, and I'm pissed. I did see some sign with horses and buggies that said "Share the Road."
Sunburn: I am very toasty and pink. At the kitchen supply store, Ben pushed cookie cutters onto my chest to make little white Stars of David and hearts.
Go-Karts: Go-Karting would be much more enjoyabe if they didn't allow twelve year-old boys to do it too. The second time we went was much more enjoyable though. It could have been those margaritas we drank before going. Too bad they don't let you drink with one hand and drive with the other.
Shopping: I got jeans for $7.
Pirate joke: How much does a hook and a peg-leg cost? An arm and a leg.
Miniature horse: On the way home, Ben and I saw a miniature horse. Ben asked "What the hell is that?" and I said, "It's a miniature horse." It was just hanging out in someone's front yard like it was their dog or something. There was no fence to contain it.
Wakeboarding: I don't know if what I did can technically be construed as wakeboarding, but I tried. It was more like me faceplanting myself into the water repeatedly. I can't do it, but I know how. Maybe I'll write a book about it. Well, maybe after I regain the usage of my limbs that the wakeboarding so violently stole.
Pool: Ben and I did lots of swimming and hottubbing and getting our drink on. We pretty much polished off a giant bottle of wine while stewing in that hot water. Once, we went to the front desk at the pool to ask for a plastic cup to split up our wine. Ben sets the very large plastic cup we already have on the counter and asks the guy working there for a plastic cup. The guy says "That's a plastic cup." Ben replies, "Oh, really. I want another one."
The Ten Commandments: On the way home, we passed God and Country Inspirational Gardens, and there was a man power-washing 10 foot Ten Commandments.
Mennonites: I didn't see any, and I'm pissed. I did see some sign with horses and buggies that said "Share the Road."
Sunburn: I am very toasty and pink. At the kitchen supply store, Ben pushed cookie cutters onto my chest to make little white Stars of David and hearts.
Go-Karts: Go-Karting would be much more enjoyabe if they didn't allow twelve year-old boys to do it too. The second time we went was much more enjoyable though. It could have been those margaritas we drank before going. Too bad they don't let you drink with one hand and drive with the other.
Shopping: I got jeans for $7.
Pirate joke: How much does a hook and a peg-leg cost? An arm and a leg.
Miniature horse: On the way home, Ben and I saw a miniature horse. Ben asked "What the hell is that?" and I said, "It's a miniature horse." It was just hanging out in someone's front yard like it was their dog or something. There was no fence to contain it.
16 Jul 2006: My Good Ideas
A pillow that is always cold: No more flipping it over when it gets hot.
Classic Nickelodeon: a television channel with all that crap I used to watch when I was little. Inspector Gadget, Salute Your Shorts, Legends of the Hidden Temple, David the Gnome, etc.
The Office Themed Monopoly: Boardwalk would be replaced with Chili's and instead of money, we'd all have phone cards, and everyone would drive a different colored Sebring convertible
Giant Legos so I could make a fort in my backyard (I guess they would just be bricks...)
A t-shirt that says "Pirates > Ninjas"
Adult Sit'N'Spin
Socks with labels: one says "L" for left, and the other says "R" for right. This helps to make certain that the same sock is always on the same foot, thus assuring that the sock forms to that foot and that foot only. It provides optimum comfort.
Shortness as a handicap: The short people of America, i.e. me, deserve certain rights and privileges since we cannot reach things on high shelves and must stand on chairs. A parking sticker or monetary compensation would be nice. I hear that this is already being implemented in Texas. The rest of the country should follow suit.
Not visiting the Middle East. Unless you want to die.
The importation of European candy to the United States: Let's face it; European candy, English candy in particular, tastes better than United Statesian candy. We should get to share in that goodness. I want to be able to go to Wal-Mart and buy a mint Aero bar. But I can't.
Abolition of 8 a.m. classes: No one wants to get up that early. Not even the professors.
The ability to spit in colors: I don't know why I would want this; it just seems like it could entertain me on a boring day.
Radio stations that play decent music: No more "My Humps." No. I want something good. And don't even think about saying "Maroon 5."
The ability to completely block out unwanted or annoying noise: I'm not just talking about drifting off into your own thoughts. It's more of a selective deafness.
Fat-free food that doesn't taste like utter crap: I firmly believe that fat equals flavor. Find a way to where no fat equals flavor. I don't want to be a chubby bunny, but I also don't want to eat cardboard.
Classic Nickelodeon: a television channel with all that crap I used to watch when I was little. Inspector Gadget, Salute Your Shorts, Legends of the Hidden Temple, David the Gnome, etc.
The Office Themed Monopoly: Boardwalk would be replaced with Chili's and instead of money, we'd all have phone cards, and everyone would drive a different colored Sebring convertible
Giant Legos so I could make a fort in my backyard (I guess they would just be bricks...)
A t-shirt that says "Pirates > Ninjas"
Adult Sit'N'Spin
Socks with labels: one says "L" for left, and the other says "R" for right. This helps to make certain that the same sock is always on the same foot, thus assuring that the sock forms to that foot and that foot only. It provides optimum comfort.
Shortness as a handicap: The short people of America, i.e. me, deserve certain rights and privileges since we cannot reach things on high shelves and must stand on chairs. A parking sticker or monetary compensation would be nice. I hear that this is already being implemented in Texas. The rest of the country should follow suit.
Not visiting the Middle East. Unless you want to die.
The importation of European candy to the United States: Let's face it; European candy, English candy in particular, tastes better than United Statesian candy. We should get to share in that goodness. I want to be able to go to Wal-Mart and buy a mint Aero bar. But I can't.
Abolition of 8 a.m. classes: No one wants to get up that early. Not even the professors.
The ability to spit in colors: I don't know why I would want this; it just seems like it could entertain me on a boring day.
Radio stations that play decent music: No more "My Humps." No. I want something good. And don't even think about saying "Maroon 5."
The ability to completely block out unwanted or annoying noise: I'm not just talking about drifting off into your own thoughts. It's more of a selective deafness.
Fat-free food that doesn't taste like utter crap: I firmly believe that fat equals flavor. Find a way to where no fat equals flavor. I don't want to be a chubby bunny, but I also don't want to eat cardboard.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
18 Jun 2006: Ponderings from the corners of my mind...
The Caped Crusader: Superman was the Caped Crusader, wasn't he? Well, if he wasn't, continue to read this anyway, and pretend I didn't just say/write such an assinine thing. Clark Kent was a bespectacled man. He removed his glasses and became Superman. Why could no one notice that Clark Kent and Superman were the same person? I don't think glasses change a person's overall appearance that much. My face is not changed by wearing glasses. I am easily recognized with or without glasses. But that could just be because I am small. I am sure I am not the first to ponder this scenario. I just felt like someone needed to say it. It is terribly unorginal, but I am terribly unoriginal at times. I am sure most, if not all, of what I think has been thought by someone else at some point anyway.
What are you going to call your tilapia? T. A little t. It can be big T when it grows up. I continue to watch bad tv: dramatic primetime dramas for fourteen year-olds. I had a Ring Pop today. Grape. Everyone should read "The Chronicles of Little Jill." It changed my life. It so full of philosophical truths. Thank you, R. Colvin.
What are you going to call your tilapia? T. A little t. It can be big T when it grows up. I continue to watch bad tv: dramatic primetime dramas for fourteen year-olds. I had a Ring Pop today. Grape. Everyone should read "The Chronicles of Little Jill." It changed my life. It so full of philosophical truths. Thank you, R. Colvin.
4 May 2006: The Speckle Eye Spectator II
The Speckle Eye Spectator II: Life is a Shit Taco
This installment of the Speckle Eye Spectator will be in modernist prose. Women are objectified, sexual objects; therefore there must be a prostitute. We extended our apologies to Kara, who is the inspiration for the prostitute. Not that she is a prostitute. Or a whore.
Lies. All lies. Mirrranda did not know anything. The customer had not yet returned to the Pirate Taco. With each passing day, the crew became less disenchanted and more and more full of despair. The prospect of a prophet's coming was abandoned. Regardless, Mirranda was still optimistic, spouting her falsehoods as if they were truths. "Despair not, mis companeros. Our taco prophet will come, and on that day we will discover the truth behind the ninja invasion and our ultimate place or purpose in the universe. But we must not despair. We must remember our American Idol, Kellie Pickler. Though she was expunged from the competition, she does not lose hope. She blindly pushes forward, and we must do the same."
"Bull shit. WTF." In a smoke-filled corner in the Pirate Taco, there sat a one-legged prostitute, dressed in a halter top of a gunmetal gray, bedecked with sequins that resembled bombs falling out of a Russian sky. Her jeweled fingers reflected the astonished faces of the crew, who had not realized up to this point that there was a guest in the Pirate Taco.
Mirrranda's wing, like a semi-automatic weapon, pointed to the sign that stated "Argh! Mateys! Mind yer profanities." Mirrranda could not help thinking of her own mother as she gazed upon the temptress. Mirranda's own mother was a prostitute. She could never forgive her mother for her irresponsible lifestyle that resulted in the unwarranted abandonment of her egg on Jirr Peckingsparrow's crow's nest. She found her mother's good-bye letter, worded like a military dispatch, and confided this information in Mario Jueve Joaquin. It was as if the letter were the Enola Gay, leaving Mario Jueve Joaquin with no choice but to evade the Dresden-like debris and fly off into the atomic sky.
"So how long have you been sitting there?" Smack asked the hoe.
"Oh, about three days." She replied quickly.
"Oh, three days you say?" Smack, with the way she would incessantly chew her gum like that part of the garbage truck that smashes up all the trash. That's how she got her name. And since the accident, she had been chewing even more gum. For each fallen comrade, she chewed a piece of gum. They chewed vicariously through her.
"Yeah, this stool is a bit uncomfortable."
"Well, we have a suggestion box." Mirrranda proffered. Over the suggestion box, a sign was hung that said "If you have a complaint, walk the plank."
"You would think after three days I would have noticed a sign like that." retorted the woman of the night.
"One might, but you have to take into account that you are sitting in a dark corner." Smack said.
"Indeed." A long silence ensued. It was only abbreviated by the random shuffling of feet.
"Would you like something to eat? You have been sitting there for three days. You have to be hungry," Rachel said to the harlot.
"I don't have any money. Surprisingly, there's not a lot of work out there for a one-legged prostitute."
Out of the the kitchen, ripe with the clanging of steel and iron, emerged Jirr through a door that resembled that of one found on a U-boat. She waved coolly at the charlatan and said "Oh, hey, Kara," and kept on walking, ever in search of a perfect tomato.
This installment of the Speckle Eye Spectator will be in modernist prose. Women are objectified, sexual objects; therefore there must be a prostitute. We extended our apologies to Kara, who is the inspiration for the prostitute. Not that she is a prostitute. Or a whore.
Lies. All lies. Mirrranda did not know anything. The customer had not yet returned to the Pirate Taco. With each passing day, the crew became less disenchanted and more and more full of despair. The prospect of a prophet's coming was abandoned. Regardless, Mirranda was still optimistic, spouting her falsehoods as if they were truths. "Despair not, mis companeros. Our taco prophet will come, and on that day we will discover the truth behind the ninja invasion and our ultimate place or purpose in the universe. But we must not despair. We must remember our American Idol, Kellie Pickler. Though she was expunged from the competition, she does not lose hope. She blindly pushes forward, and we must do the same."
"Bull shit. WTF." In a smoke-filled corner in the Pirate Taco, there sat a one-legged prostitute, dressed in a halter top of a gunmetal gray, bedecked with sequins that resembled bombs falling out of a Russian sky. Her jeweled fingers reflected the astonished faces of the crew, who had not realized up to this point that there was a guest in the Pirate Taco.
Mirrranda's wing, like a semi-automatic weapon, pointed to the sign that stated "Argh! Mateys! Mind yer profanities." Mirrranda could not help thinking of her own mother as she gazed upon the temptress. Mirranda's own mother was a prostitute. She could never forgive her mother for her irresponsible lifestyle that resulted in the unwarranted abandonment of her egg on Jirr Peckingsparrow's crow's nest. She found her mother's good-bye letter, worded like a military dispatch, and confided this information in Mario Jueve Joaquin. It was as if the letter were the Enola Gay, leaving Mario Jueve Joaquin with no choice but to evade the Dresden-like debris and fly off into the atomic sky.
"So how long have you been sitting there?" Smack asked the hoe.
"Oh, about three days." She replied quickly.
"Oh, three days you say?" Smack, with the way she would incessantly chew her gum like that part of the garbage truck that smashes up all the trash. That's how she got her name. And since the accident, she had been chewing even more gum. For each fallen comrade, she chewed a piece of gum. They chewed vicariously through her.
"Yeah, this stool is a bit uncomfortable."
"Well, we have a suggestion box." Mirrranda proffered. Over the suggestion box, a sign was hung that said "If you have a complaint, walk the plank."
"You would think after three days I would have noticed a sign like that." retorted the woman of the night.
"One might, but you have to take into account that you are sitting in a dark corner." Smack said.
"Indeed." A long silence ensued. It was only abbreviated by the random shuffling of feet.
"Would you like something to eat? You have been sitting there for three days. You have to be hungry," Rachel said to the harlot.
"I don't have any money. Surprisingly, there's not a lot of work out there for a one-legged prostitute."
Out of the the kitchen, ripe with the clanging of steel and iron, emerged Jirr through a door that resembled that of one found on a U-boat. She waved coolly at the charlatan and said "Oh, hey, Kara," and kept on walking, ever in search of a perfect tomato.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
4 Apr 2006: I don't know...
Today, Gaughan stated that "All great teachers of mankind get killed." Why do they get killed? Their thoughts. They were great thinkers, and they were killed for their thoughts. Or were they killed because of their thoughts? Or even, indirectly, by their thoughts? Can thoughts kill? Yes, I think so. They can drive one to madness because thoughts are unrelenting. My brain is beginning not to accomodate to all my thoughts (not that all of them are poignant, but they are there nonetheless). "Things that matter hurt...well, let's talk about whores now - something we can all agree on."
T.S. Eliot was right. "April is the cruellest month."
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Spring, with all its exquisiteness, cannot be enjoyed by students like me because we are eternally writing papers about things that ultimately don't matter and studying for tests that in the end don't amount to anything but a red letter on a paper. Everything is a tease. There is no disposable time for enjoyment. No time to fly a kite or nap under a tree or do absolutely nothing at all. I shouldn't even be doing this, for Walker Percy will not read itself. But the mind does need a respite, or all of its thoughts will overwhelm it and slowly drive one to madness. I think I'm well on my way.
Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
This is our destiny if we do not live life for living, but rather for some seemingly powerful, material thing.
I have said all this to say this: I don't know. I just don't know. I don't know anything about anything anymore. I don't know anything at all. Nothing...
Thank you, T.S. Eliot.
T.S. Eliot was right. "April is the cruellest month."
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Spring, with all its exquisiteness, cannot be enjoyed by students like me because we are eternally writing papers about things that ultimately don't matter and studying for tests that in the end don't amount to anything but a red letter on a paper. Everything is a tease. There is no disposable time for enjoyment. No time to fly a kite or nap under a tree or do absolutely nothing at all. I shouldn't even be doing this, for Walker Percy will not read itself. But the mind does need a respite, or all of its thoughts will overwhelm it and slowly drive one to madness. I think I'm well on my way.
Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
This is our destiny if we do not live life for living, but rather for some seemingly powerful, material thing.
I have said all this to say this: I don't know. I just don't know. I don't know anything about anything anymore. I don't know anything at all. Nothing...
Thank you, T.S. Eliot.
31 Mar 2006: Soy una perdedora...
I'm a loser, baby, so why don't you mock me terribly?
The world is cruel and unjust and entirely too full of rude people. No es justo. I lost. People, who shall go unnamed, are completely ignorant of parliamentary procedure, so for their benefit, I shall proffer up an abrigded version of Robert's Rules of Order.
Point Uno: If the question is debatable and no one rises to claim the floor, after the question is stated by the chair, he should inquire, "Are you ready for the question?" After a moment's pause, if no one rises, he should put the question to vote. If the question is debated or motions are made, the chair should wait until the debate has apparently ceased, when he should again inquire, "Are you ready for the question?" Having given ample time for any one to rise and claim the floor, and no one having done so, he should put the question to vote and announce the result.
This in no way means "Senor Presidente, take it upon yourself to nominate whomever the hell you want for whatever position." If no one else nominates a person for an office, just declare the only nominated person the winner. Stupidface.
Point Dos: Presidents, chairmen, or anyone conducting the meeting are not allowed to vote in elections or other matters needing to be voted upon unless it is deemed necessary that the elections or voting be done by ballot.
Therefore, my friends, the president cannot vote in an election conducted by raising one's hand!
And there you have it, fellow citizens of a cruel, cruel world. I shall stop with my ranting.
The world is cruel and unjust and entirely too full of rude people. No es justo. I lost. People, who shall go unnamed, are completely ignorant of parliamentary procedure, so for their benefit, I shall proffer up an abrigded version of Robert's Rules of Order.
Point Uno: If the question is debatable and no one rises to claim the floor, after the question is stated by the chair, he should inquire, "Are you ready for the question?" After a moment's pause, if no one rises, he should put the question to vote. If the question is debated or motions are made, the chair should wait until the debate has apparently ceased, when he should again inquire, "Are you ready for the question?" Having given ample time for any one to rise and claim the floor, and no one having done so, he should put the question to vote and announce the result.
This in no way means "Senor Presidente, take it upon yourself to nominate whomever the hell you want for whatever position." If no one else nominates a person for an office, just declare the only nominated person the winner. Stupidface.
Point Dos: Presidents, chairmen, or anyone conducting the meeting are not allowed to vote in elections or other matters needing to be voted upon unless it is deemed necessary that the elections or voting be done by ballot.
Therefore, my friends, the president cannot vote in an election conducted by raising one's hand!
And there you have it, fellow citizens of a cruel, cruel world. I shall stop with my ranting.
30 Mar 2006: The Speckle-Eye Spectator
This sequel to "The Worst Story Ever" will be a joint effort betwixt myself and the lovely Rachel Colvin.
"Los Pirates de Pirate Taco" by Jill P. and Rachel C.
This story is a realist perspective about pirates working a menial job at the Pirate Taco. One might also call this a naturalistic perspective in that there is no free will involved here. Nature just doesn't give a damn. These guys are working day to day with hopes that the Pirate Taco will sustain them, but there are no guarantees. There are no guarantees for any of us. As Fowler would say, nature is a harsh mistress. And the Pirate Taco is their world.
Un dia, the scurvy pirate Jirr Peckingsparrows was out and about scouring the earth for the perfect ingredients for use at the Pirate Taco. Life was beautiful for Jirr. The sky was blue, kites had all their components. Children were laughing; a sign of youth and crap. Jirr's precious parrot, Mirrranda, reflected on the maternal qualities befitting the scene in which they found themselves - one that enveloped them in a warm, grandmotherly hug of sorts. Or one of those old ladies whom you have known in church, who smells like a mixture of Vicks Vapo-rub and Bengay. Or your weird drunk Uncle Mike (or Verl) that's just a little too "in to it."
Upon their return to the Pirate Taco, fabulous ingredients at hand, Jirr and Mirrranda find Smack, a trustworthy employee, perched on a three-legged stool, peering through a telescope in search of enemy vessels that could be approaching down the street. While she watched, she honed her harmonica skills, even blessing the Pirate Taco crew with her own special arrangements of hits like "Hit Me Baby One More Time" and "Tiny Dancer."
Out of the darkness behind Smack emerged an ever-depressed co-Capitan Raquel. She just wasn't the same since the ninja incident. But today, she was looking even worse than usual.
"Why, what ever is wrong with you, Raquel?" inquired Jirr.
"I'm so dilapidated. I used to be a whole giraffe, but now I'm a half of one," replied Raquel.
"What the hell does that mean?" Smack asks.
"My parrot Mario Jueve Joaquin has left me, never to return. And just like a giraffe is not whole without its half, a pirate is never whole without his parrot," Raquel said.
Mirrranda proffered thus: "Though Mario Jueve Joaquin is gone, you must believe that he will return. And even if he doesn't return, you must believe that you will be taken care of. And even if you are not taken care of, you must believe that belief in something is more important than truth."
And at that moment, Smack yells that all-important call, that call that sends every pirate's nerves jumping. "Customer!" for they hadn't had a customer in the two years since they had opened the Pirate Taco. Yes, it had been two years. The Small Business Bureau had been on their asses, as well as the IRS. They had filed for bankruptcy twice, and yet they still clung to the belief that someone, anyone, would come. And that person would be the beginning of something great, they just didn't know what that would be.
"Uh, I would like a number two, soft, no cheese, with a Mountain Dew," said the customer.
Everyone was dumbfounded for a moment. And then Raquel said, "Sorry, but we only serve Coke products."
"Oh sure, Coke is fine," said the customer.
"That will be $3.75."
The customer sat down to eat his soft taco, no cheese, and all the employees gathered around to watch, expecting something brilliant to happen, perhaps even life-altering speech, maybe something that would send them on their way with zeal, with meaning, with purpose. They all watched, with anticipation, as the customer consumed the taco. They watched every bite, every swallow, every wipe of the mouth, every Coca-Cola induced burp. Finally, the customer disposed of his wrapper, placed his tray on top of the recepticle, and refilled his cup. With an all too unfamiliar ding of the front door, the customer with the bitch-tucked shirt left the Pirate Taco, probably never to return.
The employees heaved a unanimous sigh. Raquel believed that there was truly nothing else to believe in. The dream was shattered; that chapter of their lives was over, for they all believed that their first customer would be a prophet of sorts who would direct their paths, their journeys, because none of them anticipated working at the Pirate Taco forever (except maybe Jirr.) But alas, he was not.
"My fellow pirates, all is not lost," exclaimed Mirrranda. "For he who is gone must return. If not, he must send another in his stead, for we cannot be lost in this shamble. We will rise above, for it is our fate, our destiny. The customer does not realize the error of his ways. He will reflect upon the taco, the warm environment of this sacred place, the special spices of our secret sauce. All is well, pirates!"
With those profound words, a new-found hope was instilled in the pirates, save Raquel. Even though what Mirranda proclaimed was not necessarily true, the pirates believed as though it was, for it was more important to believe than be knowledgeable of the truth.
To be continued...
Stay tuned to see what becomes of the pirates' faith in nature.
"Los Pirates de Pirate Taco" by Jill P. and Rachel C.
This story is a realist perspective about pirates working a menial job at the Pirate Taco. One might also call this a naturalistic perspective in that there is no free will involved here. Nature just doesn't give a damn. These guys are working day to day with hopes that the Pirate Taco will sustain them, but there are no guarantees. There are no guarantees for any of us. As Fowler would say, nature is a harsh mistress. And the Pirate Taco is their world.
Un dia, the scurvy pirate Jirr Peckingsparrows was out and about scouring the earth for the perfect ingredients for use at the Pirate Taco. Life was beautiful for Jirr. The sky was blue, kites had all their components. Children were laughing; a sign of youth and crap. Jirr's precious parrot, Mirrranda, reflected on the maternal qualities befitting the scene in which they found themselves - one that enveloped them in a warm, grandmotherly hug of sorts. Or one of those old ladies whom you have known in church, who smells like a mixture of Vicks Vapo-rub and Bengay. Or your weird drunk Uncle Mike (or Verl) that's just a little too "in to it."
Upon their return to the Pirate Taco, fabulous ingredients at hand, Jirr and Mirrranda find Smack, a trustworthy employee, perched on a three-legged stool, peering through a telescope in search of enemy vessels that could be approaching down the street. While she watched, she honed her harmonica skills, even blessing the Pirate Taco crew with her own special arrangements of hits like "Hit Me Baby One More Time" and "Tiny Dancer."
Out of the darkness behind Smack emerged an ever-depressed co-Capitan Raquel. She just wasn't the same since the ninja incident. But today, she was looking even worse than usual.
"Why, what ever is wrong with you, Raquel?" inquired Jirr.
"I'm so dilapidated. I used to be a whole giraffe, but now I'm a half of one," replied Raquel.
"What the hell does that mean?" Smack asks.
"My parrot Mario Jueve Joaquin has left me, never to return. And just like a giraffe is not whole without its half, a pirate is never whole without his parrot," Raquel said.
Mirrranda proffered thus: "Though Mario Jueve Joaquin is gone, you must believe that he will return. And even if he doesn't return, you must believe that you will be taken care of. And even if you are not taken care of, you must believe that belief in something is more important than truth."
And at that moment, Smack yells that all-important call, that call that sends every pirate's nerves jumping. "Customer!" for they hadn't had a customer in the two years since they had opened the Pirate Taco. Yes, it had been two years. The Small Business Bureau had been on their asses, as well as the IRS. They had filed for bankruptcy twice, and yet they still clung to the belief that someone, anyone, would come. And that person would be the beginning of something great, they just didn't know what that would be.
"Uh, I would like a number two, soft, no cheese, with a Mountain Dew," said the customer.
Everyone was dumbfounded for a moment. And then Raquel said, "Sorry, but we only serve Coke products."
"Oh sure, Coke is fine," said the customer.
"That will be $3.75."
The customer sat down to eat his soft taco, no cheese, and all the employees gathered around to watch, expecting something brilliant to happen, perhaps even life-altering speech, maybe something that would send them on their way with zeal, with meaning, with purpose. They all watched, with anticipation, as the customer consumed the taco. They watched every bite, every swallow, every wipe of the mouth, every Coca-Cola induced burp. Finally, the customer disposed of his wrapper, placed his tray on top of the recepticle, and refilled his cup. With an all too unfamiliar ding of the front door, the customer with the bitch-tucked shirt left the Pirate Taco, probably never to return.
The employees heaved a unanimous sigh. Raquel believed that there was truly nothing else to believe in. The dream was shattered; that chapter of their lives was over, for they all believed that their first customer would be a prophet of sorts who would direct their paths, their journeys, because none of them anticipated working at the Pirate Taco forever (except maybe Jirr.) But alas, he was not.
"My fellow pirates, all is not lost," exclaimed Mirrranda. "For he who is gone must return. If not, he must send another in his stead, for we cannot be lost in this shamble. We will rise above, for it is our fate, our destiny. The customer does not realize the error of his ways. He will reflect upon the taco, the warm environment of this sacred place, the special spices of our secret sauce. All is well, pirates!"
With those profound words, a new-found hope was instilled in the pirates, save Raquel. Even though what Mirranda proclaimed was not necessarily true, the pirates believed as though it was, for it was more important to believe than be knowledgeable of the truth.
To be continued...
Stay tuned to see what becomes of the pirates' faith in nature.
13 Mar 2006: "The Worst Story Ever" by Jill P.
I like Mad Libs, so therefore today this entry shall be my own little Mad Lib. I shall make a random story in which I insert the humorous anecdotes of my day. Here we go; let's hope this works out well.
*Note: this story with definitely be about pirates...and ninjas (who are not as good as pirates)...and tacos.
Un dia, the scurvy pirate Jirr Peckingsparrows* (it's only right I star in my story) was on board her pirate ship Truancy, because Jirr and co-Capitan Raquel thought it a good idea to skip class and sail the sea/eat breakfast that day. On board, Jirr decides to divulge all her earthly secrets to Raquel. "You know, the ocean is huge.**"
"I am aware, Jirr," Raquel tells her. "Where are we?"
"I don't know where the hell we are. In the ocean,**" Jirr replied. "Now, let me get back to my secrets." Jirr went on to tell Raquel all about her fear of cows and fancy ladies and her dreams of being the first pirate documentary filmmaker.
"You could make a documentary about the ocean, you know. A real life Jaws," suggested Raquel.
"Steven Spielberg often both frustrates and fascinates me,**" Jirr said.
Suddenly, a boat of rogue ninjas approached the Truancy. The ninjas sailed up next to the ship and boarded it. The head ninja asked, "Where are the tacos?"
The tacos? How did the ninjas know about Jirr and Raquel's secret taco stash? They had never told a soul. Perhaps the ninjas were just bluffing and asking for the tacos was a lucky guess. It seemed unlikely that the ninjas knew anything, being stupid ninjas and all.
It turns out, the ninjas had secret survailance on Jirr and Raquel. The ninjas envied the pirates and conspired to steal their treasure, the tacos.
Jirr and Raquel were not going to go down without a fight. "We are better than them. Life is so much better for us. We have better haircuts,**" said Jirr. Raquel agreed, and the fight was on. After much battling with swords, canons, Indiana Jones whips, and Moonraker lasers, the ninjas were losing severely. And the tacos seemed safe, but not for long.
One of the Moonraker lasers had a short in it, and it caught a pile of eyepatches on fire, which subsequently set the whole ship ablaze. "Oh, no!" screamed Jirr and Raquel. "The Truancy!" They were losing their beloved ship. They realized there was no saving it, but they could save the tacos, and that's just what they did.
Jirr and Raquel grabbed all the tacos they could, which happened to be all of them, and jumped onto the ninja ship, Jackie Chan. Jirr expertly sailed the Jackie Chan back to friendly waters.
A month later, after receiving an insurance check due to the loss of the Truancy, Jirr and Raquel opened a chain of taco restaurants called, but what else, "Pirate Taco."
The End (of the worst story ever written)
* - courtesy of Smack
** - courtesy of Gaughan
Last night, Rachel kept yelling at the TV and calling the History Channel a liar. Apparently, Walt Disney didn't die before Disneyworld opened? Yeah, I'm thinking the same thing. Rachel, what is wrong with you?
The boys next door have a Slip 'N' Slide. I'm jealous. I want one, too.
*Note: this story with definitely be about pirates...and ninjas (who are not as good as pirates)...and tacos.
Un dia, the scurvy pirate Jirr Peckingsparrows* (it's only right I star in my story) was on board her pirate ship Truancy, because Jirr and co-Capitan Raquel thought it a good idea to skip class and sail the sea/eat breakfast that day. On board, Jirr decides to divulge all her earthly secrets to Raquel. "You know, the ocean is huge.**"
"I am aware, Jirr," Raquel tells her. "Where are we?"
"I don't know where the hell we are. In the ocean,**" Jirr replied. "Now, let me get back to my secrets." Jirr went on to tell Raquel all about her fear of cows and fancy ladies and her dreams of being the first pirate documentary filmmaker.
"You could make a documentary about the ocean, you know. A real life Jaws," suggested Raquel.
"Steven Spielberg often both frustrates and fascinates me,**" Jirr said.
Suddenly, a boat of rogue ninjas approached the Truancy. The ninjas sailed up next to the ship and boarded it. The head ninja asked, "Where are the tacos?"
The tacos? How did the ninjas know about Jirr and Raquel's secret taco stash? They had never told a soul. Perhaps the ninjas were just bluffing and asking for the tacos was a lucky guess. It seemed unlikely that the ninjas knew anything, being stupid ninjas and all.
It turns out, the ninjas had secret survailance on Jirr and Raquel. The ninjas envied the pirates and conspired to steal their treasure, the tacos.
Jirr and Raquel were not going to go down without a fight. "We are better than them. Life is so much better for us. We have better haircuts,**" said Jirr. Raquel agreed, and the fight was on. After much battling with swords, canons, Indiana Jones whips, and Moonraker lasers, the ninjas were losing severely. And the tacos seemed safe, but not for long.
One of the Moonraker lasers had a short in it, and it caught a pile of eyepatches on fire, which subsequently set the whole ship ablaze. "Oh, no!" screamed Jirr and Raquel. "The Truancy!" They were losing their beloved ship. They realized there was no saving it, but they could save the tacos, and that's just what they did.
Jirr and Raquel grabbed all the tacos they could, which happened to be all of them, and jumped onto the ninja ship, Jackie Chan. Jirr expertly sailed the Jackie Chan back to friendly waters.
A month later, after receiving an insurance check due to the loss of the Truancy, Jirr and Raquel opened a chain of taco restaurants called, but what else, "Pirate Taco."
The End (of the worst story ever written)
* - courtesy of Smack
** - courtesy of Gaughan
Last night, Rachel kept yelling at the TV and calling the History Channel a liar. Apparently, Walt Disney didn't die before Disneyworld opened? Yeah, I'm thinking the same thing. Rachel, what is wrong with you?
The boys next door have a Slip 'N' Slide. I'm jealous. I want one, too.
El principio
This is my first entry on Blogspace. I have a blog somewhere else, but no one reads it. This is fresher and newer. So this is my new blog. But I am going to import all my old ones, at least the good ones, because I don't want to lose them.
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