The isles were arranged in such a way that they consisted of prime numbers, with isle 1 on the third floor and isle 787 on the -13th floor under below sea level. They held flavors of gum ranging from delightfully delicious doobleberry to balistically balanced banana. Isle 1 contained all of the special assortments produced by Eric after his adventurous expedition to White Castle with Arjun and Kal Penn, preceded by isle 3 which held Mr. Imondi’s beards’ all time favorites like the infamous 11LEAVE-ME-ALONE flavor spontaneous invented by him with his patented humor back in the day when he taught creative writing in the greatest creative writing class of all time.
The second story of the underground nightclub was devoted purely to Ronald McDonald and his McDonald minions, in their conquest to conquer the fast food world with their superciliously supersized cheeseburger-cheeseburgers and godly sized succulent Caesar salads. On the sewer-top down 7th avenue which serves as the entrance to the underground nightclub, huge, ghastly letters written in invisible ink that’s visible only to those whose noses have been touched by Mr. Imondi’s artistic fingers.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Jealous Husband Returns in Form of Parrot
This is the beginning of a story by Robert Olen Butler.
I never can quite say as much as I know. I look at other parrots and I wonder if it's the same for them, if somebody is trapped in each of them paying some kind of price for living their life in a certain way. For instance, "Hello," I say, and I'm sitting on a perch in a pet store in Houston and what I'm really thinking is Holy shit. It's you. And what's happened is I'm looking at my wife.
"Hello," she says, and she comes over to me and I can't believe how beautiful she is. Those great brown eyes, almost as dark as the center of mine. And her nose--I don't remember her for her nose but its beauty is clear to me now. Her nose is a little too long, but it's redeemed by the faint hook to it. She scratches the back of my neck. Her touch makes my tail flare. I feel the stretch and rustle of me back there. I bend my head to her and she whispers, "Pretty bird." For a moment I think she knows it's me. But she doesn't, of course. I say "Hello" again and I will eventually pick up "pretty bird." I can tell that as soon as she says it, but for now I can only give her another hello. Her fingertips move through my feathers and she seems to know about birds. She knows that to pet a bird you don't smooth his feathers down, you ruffle them. But of course she did that in my human life, as well. It's all the same for her. Not that I was complaining, even to myself, at that moment in the pet shop when she found me like I presume she was supposed to. She said it again, "Pretty bird," and this brain that works like it does now could feel that tiny little voice of mine ready to shape itself around these sounds. But before I could get them out of my beak there was this guy at my wife's shoulder and all my feathers went slick flat like to make me small enough not to be seen and I backed away. The pupils of my eyes pinned and dilated and pinned again. He circled around her. A guy that looked like a meat packer, big in the chest and thick with hair, the kind of guy that I always sensed her eyes moving to when I was alive. I had a bare chest and I'd look for little black hairs on the sheets when I'd come home on a day with the whiff of somebody else in the air. She was still in the same goddam rut. A “hello” wouldn't do and I'd recently learned “good night” but it was the wrong suggestion altogether, so I said nothing and the guy circled her and he was looking at me with a smug little smile and I fluffed up all my feathers, made myself about twice as big, so big he'd see he couldn't mess with me. I waited for him to draw close enough for me to take off the tip of his finger. But she intervened. Those nut-brown eyes were before me and she said, "I want him." And that's how I ended up in my own house once again. She bought me a large black wrought-iron cage, very large, convinced by some young guy who clerked in the bird department and who took her aside and made his voice go much too soft when he was doing the selling job. The meat packer didn't like it. I didn't either. I'd missed a lot of chances to take a bite out of this clerk in my stay at the shop and I regretted that suddenly.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I regretted not fleeing when I had the chance, not dropping my feces upon that damned clerk the few times he accidently let me loose. Doesn’t matter what come and gone, this is war- meat packer better bring his best, because this is full out war. Honestly, if you think Japan had it bad, you don’t even know what’s coming. I’ll ruffle my feathers to make myself twice as big as the incredible Hulk if I have too.
As I expected, he struck first. Throwing his plush bathrobe over my large black wrought-iron cage the moment we got home, the meatpacker hurled me into complete, damp darkness for the rest of the afternoon. What does he think I am, his coat-hanger? He abuses me like this, exploiting my presence for his own benefit and amusement whenever she’s not home, whenever she’s not around to protect my encaged body from being mistreated. Whatever happened to animal rights? Whatever happened to the consciousness of humanity?
I knew he’d try to mess with me the moment he gave me that grill back at the pet store, so I planned ahead. I called my new friends from Harlem with the typical parrot “cacaw,” knowing I’d need backup. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to take him alone, but with Mokwanda and Tigga-Pooh I had a pretty good chance. I had to protect my one true love from the grimy hands of that tyrannical, grimy runt who was trying to replace me.
To be honest, I have the opportunity to make his damn hands bleed just about everyday, but I’ve never done it. I’ve had the chance to peck his grimy fingers that have been G-d knows where
I never can quite say as much as I know. I look at other parrots and I wonder if it's the same for them, if somebody is trapped in each of them paying some kind of price for living their life in a certain way. For instance, "Hello," I say, and I'm sitting on a perch in a pet store in Houston and what I'm really thinking is Holy shit. It's you. And what's happened is I'm looking at my wife.
"Hello," she says, and she comes over to me and I can't believe how beautiful she is. Those great brown eyes, almost as dark as the center of mine. And her nose--I don't remember her for her nose but its beauty is clear to me now. Her nose is a little too long, but it's redeemed by the faint hook to it. She scratches the back of my neck. Her touch makes my tail flare. I feel the stretch and rustle of me back there. I bend my head to her and she whispers, "Pretty bird." For a moment I think she knows it's me. But she doesn't, of course. I say "Hello" again and I will eventually pick up "pretty bird." I can tell that as soon as she says it, but for now I can only give her another hello. Her fingertips move through my feathers and she seems to know about birds. She knows that to pet a bird you don't smooth his feathers down, you ruffle them. But of course she did that in my human life, as well. It's all the same for her. Not that I was complaining, even to myself, at that moment in the pet shop when she found me like I presume she was supposed to. She said it again, "Pretty bird," and this brain that works like it does now could feel that tiny little voice of mine ready to shape itself around these sounds. But before I could get them out of my beak there was this guy at my wife's shoulder and all my feathers went slick flat like to make me small enough not to be seen and I backed away. The pupils of my eyes pinned and dilated and pinned again. He circled around her. A guy that looked like a meat packer, big in the chest and thick with hair, the kind of guy that I always sensed her eyes moving to when I was alive. I had a bare chest and I'd look for little black hairs on the sheets when I'd come home on a day with the whiff of somebody else in the air. She was still in the same goddam rut. A “hello” wouldn't do and I'd recently learned “good night” but it was the wrong suggestion altogether, so I said nothing and the guy circled her and he was looking at me with a smug little smile and I fluffed up all my feathers, made myself about twice as big, so big he'd see he couldn't mess with me. I waited for him to draw close enough for me to take off the tip of his finger. But she intervened. Those nut-brown eyes were before me and she said, "I want him." And that's how I ended up in my own house once again. She bought me a large black wrought-iron cage, very large, convinced by some young guy who clerked in the bird department and who took her aside and made his voice go much too soft when he was doing the selling job. The meat packer didn't like it. I didn't either. I'd missed a lot of chances to take a bite out of this clerk in my stay at the shop and I regretted that suddenly.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I regretted not fleeing when I had the chance, not dropping my feces upon that damned clerk the few times he accidently let me loose. Doesn’t matter what come and gone, this is war- meat packer better bring his best, because this is full out war. Honestly, if you think Japan had it bad, you don’t even know what’s coming. I’ll ruffle my feathers to make myself twice as big as the incredible Hulk if I have too.
As I expected, he struck first. Throwing his plush bathrobe over my large black wrought-iron cage the moment we got home, the meatpacker hurled me into complete, damp darkness for the rest of the afternoon. What does he think I am, his coat-hanger? He abuses me like this, exploiting my presence for his own benefit and amusement whenever she’s not home, whenever she’s not around to protect my encaged body from being mistreated. Whatever happened to animal rights? Whatever happened to the consciousness of humanity?
I knew he’d try to mess with me the moment he gave me that grill back at the pet store, so I planned ahead. I called my new friends from Harlem with the typical parrot “cacaw,” knowing I’d need backup. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to take him alone, but with Mokwanda and Tigga-Pooh I had a pretty good chance. I had to protect my one true love from the grimy hands of that tyrannical, grimy runt who was trying to replace me.
To be honest, I have the opportunity to make his damn hands bleed just about everyday, but I’ve never done it. I’ve had the chance to peck his grimy fingers that have been G-d knows where
Imondi's Late for Class
Some say he was looking for his girlfriend at the local pet store, listening to the harmonious chirping of the magnificently colored parrots in order to try to locate her, somehow trapped and encaged within the body of a bird. Other say he was down at the Bakery, using his deft fingers to carefully roll and shape the heavy dough to make his own exquisite creation of the infamous Pineapple Pizza a la mode. But I know the real reason. I know why Immondi was late to his undeniably remarkable 6th period Creative Writing class, and why my peers and I were deprived of his presence for a never-ending time span of 15 whole minutes.
You see, it started that morning when he was having breakfast.
“Ma, where’s the cheerios?! I need my cheerios Ma!”
“Michael, I told you for the billionth time, that damn englishman stole it!”
Evidently, Mr Imondi is quite passionate about his cheerios. So passionate that if he was to be deprived of a bowl of these honey-nut creations from G-d, he'd go ballistic and lose his marbles. It was basically his miracle drug.
Nevertheless, with an empty tank bereft of cheerios and a sad puppy face cuter than any other dog on the planet, Mr. Imondi started his routinely morning walk to school. On any other day he'd merely run to the Walmart down the block, leaving the cereal isle cheeriosless in a matter of minutes. Not this time though- just recently, Walmart had been bought out by Paris Hilton and had been turned to a store that exclusively only serves 'hot' walls. Many argue that this is an idiotic attempt by her to cover up the fact that she thought Walmart was a place where they sell nothing but walls for constructing houses and office buildings, while others say that it is an attempt by her to make society more functional and a lot less complicated. Nevertheless, Mr. Imondi set out on his daily morning down Jericho Turnpike to Herricks High School with a empty stomach craving some scrumptious cereal on the side of a refreshing glass of cold, fresh milk.
The day started out normally like any other day would, with students racing down the high school's infamous 100 meter hallways against the grumpy morning bell and Mr. Cooper divinely splitting the vast sea of freshman blocking the doorway to his the math office. Sad and depressed, Mr. Imondi swaggered past the front office into the English wing, gingerly making a swift right turn into the dark classroom he had claimed as his during his first years at the high school. He sat down and slouched into the dark blue beanie bag his girlfriend bought him for Christmas last year, closing his eyes and quietly mourning for the sacred breakfast he was so dearly deprived of today.
You see, it started that morning when he was having breakfast.
“Ma, where’s the cheerios?! I need my cheerios Ma!”
“Michael, I told you for the billionth time, that damn englishman stole it!”
Evidently, Mr Imondi is quite passionate about his cheerios. So passionate that if he was to be deprived of a bowl of these honey-nut creations from G-d, he'd go ballistic and lose his marbles. It was basically his miracle drug.
Nevertheless, with an empty tank bereft of cheerios and a sad puppy face cuter than any other dog on the planet, Mr. Imondi started his routinely morning walk to school. On any other day he'd merely run to the Walmart down the block, leaving the cereal isle cheeriosless in a matter of minutes. Not this time though- just recently, Walmart had been bought out by Paris Hilton and had been turned to a store that exclusively only serves 'hot' walls. Many argue that this is an idiotic attempt by her to cover up the fact that she thought Walmart was a place where they sell nothing but walls for constructing houses and office buildings, while others say that it is an attempt by her to make society more functional and a lot less complicated. Nevertheless, Mr. Imondi set out on his daily morning down Jericho Turnpike to Herricks High School with a empty stomach craving some scrumptious cereal on the side of a refreshing glass of cold, fresh milk.
The day started out normally like any other day would, with students racing down the high school's infamous 100 meter hallways against the grumpy morning bell and Mr. Cooper divinely splitting the vast sea of freshman blocking the doorway to his the math office. Sad and depressed, Mr. Imondi swaggered past the front office into the English wing, gingerly making a swift right turn into the dark classroom he had claimed as his during his first years at the high school. He sat down and slouched into the dark blue beanie bag his girlfriend bought him for Christmas last year, closing his eyes and quietly mourning for the sacred breakfast he was so dearly deprived of today.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Iced Tea Dialogue Gone Wrong
Dialogue #1
“Would you like some tea?”
“I would. Thank you.”
“Careful. It’s hot.”
“I usually prefer iced tea.”
“Mmm. I don’t have any.”
“Maybe I can put ice in this tea.”
“But that’s what I’m saying—I don’t have any cubes.”
“Sorry.”
“Honestly, if you rub it in one more time with your unnecessary, foolish sarcasm, I will punch you in the face. That's a promise.”
“Honestly bro, you have to calm down. So he was right, what's the big deal?”
“Whats the big deal? I'm lacking the stupid resource that's extremely vital in making your tea cold, leaving you helpless during a time of such anxiety and desperation, a time where icecubes have ceased to naturally exist due to the desperate gamble mankind has taken against mother nature's shenanigans. That's the big deal!”
“Honestly, it was Al Gore's fault to begin with. No one watches documentries.”
“Honestly, if you say honestly one more time, I won't only punch you in the face but I'll tickle you until you become unconscious and leave you in the sun to bake like old Uncle Earl's mudcream pie.”
“Look bro, it's over. If you can't honor your committment to me and give me enough attention like you do to the rest of your significant others, I don't think I can live in the same house as you, nevertheless even look at you for the rest of my life every single morning when I wake up and every single night, right before I go to sleep.”
“Who said I even wanted to look at you? I couldn't care less if you left buttercup!”
“UGH I REALLY DESPISE YOU. HAVE A NICE, CUBELESS LIFE YOU SOULLESS LITTLE RUNT. BYE.”
“Would you like some tea?”
“I would. Thank you.”
“Careful. It’s hot.”
“I usually prefer iced tea.”
“Mmm. I don’t have any.”
“Maybe I can put ice in this tea.”
“But that’s what I’m saying—I don’t have any cubes.”
“Sorry.”
“Honestly, if you rub it in one more time with your unnecessary, foolish sarcasm, I will punch you in the face. That's a promise.”
“Honestly bro, you have to calm down. So he was right, what's the big deal?”
“Whats the big deal? I'm lacking the stupid resource that's extremely vital in making your tea cold, leaving you helpless during a time of such anxiety and desperation, a time where icecubes have ceased to naturally exist due to the desperate gamble mankind has taken against mother nature's shenanigans. That's the big deal!”
“Honestly, it was Al Gore's fault to begin with. No one watches documentries.”
“Honestly, if you say honestly one more time, I won't only punch you in the face but I'll tickle you until you become unconscious and leave you in the sun to bake like old Uncle Earl's mudcream pie.”
“Look bro, it's over. If you can't honor your committment to me and give me enough attention like you do to the rest of your significant others, I don't think I can live in the same house as you, nevertheless even look at you for the rest of my life every single morning when I wake up and every single night, right before I go to sleep.”
“Who said I even wanted to look at you? I couldn't care less if you left buttercup!”
“UGH I REALLY DESPISE YOU. HAVE A NICE, CUBELESS LIFE YOU SOULLESS LITTLE RUNT. BYE.”
Friday, March 5, 2010
How to Become a Writer
I found this piece beyond amusing. It kind of follows the authors stream of consciousness, allowing you to roam within her head among her random thoughts, only applying them to the true meaning and moral she ultimately intends to show you at the very end. The piece jumps around constantly and never really dwells on one topic for more than a moment or two, so though it takes a lot of concentration to follow the writer of this piece, you're never really left bored and you're always entertained by one of the writer's crazy ideas.
One of the quotes that I found really intruiging were:
_____________________________________________________________________________________
"In three years there
have been three things: you lost your virginity; your parents got divorced; and your brother
came home from a forest 10 miles from the Cambodian border with only half a thigh, a
permanent smirk nestled into one corner of his mouth."
_____________________________________________________________________________________
This part of Moore's piece really exhibits her style of writing, and shows us about what it means to her to be a good writer. It doesn't mean using fancy vocabulary and professional diction, or having a reputation for writing about a popular topic that people enjoy. Being a good writer means you're able to speak your mind and express you ideas, showing you're unafraid to present your true self. You can be as crazy as you want with your ideas and go anywhere you want with them- everyone does, but not everyone's brave enough to show it.
One of the quotes that I found really intruiging were:
_____________________________________________________________________________________
"In three years there
have been three things: you lost your virginity; your parents got divorced; and your brother
came home from a forest 10 miles from the Cambodian border with only half a thigh, a
permanent smirk nestled into one corner of his mouth."
_____________________________________________________________________________________
This part of Moore's piece really exhibits her style of writing, and shows us about what it means to her to be a good writer. It doesn't mean using fancy vocabulary and professional diction, or having a reputation for writing about a popular topic that people enjoy. Being a good writer means you're able to speak your mind and express you ideas, showing you're unafraid to present your true self. You can be as crazy as you want with your ideas and go anywhere you want with them- everyone does, but not everyone's brave enough to show it.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Wonderwall, by Oasis [Final Copy]
I guess it was my fault. It was supposed to be tonight, but I blew it. It was as simple as having dinner, taking a walk on the beach, and proposing to her on the edge of the cool, soft sand. I had it all planned out too- I ran the entire scene through my head at least a hundred times the night before, accounting for every little detail just so I could make sure it would go perfectly.
Next week would be three years, seven months. 184 weeks. It seems like only yesterday that I met her though, at the end of a supermarket in the poultry isle. The first time I saw her, I knew it was meant to be. Love at first sight doesn’t just happen in movies you know. She was struggling with the muscular, weighty chicken leg when I first approached her, offering my hand in assistance. I carried that thing all the way across isle 3 to her car- I never expected an errand like that to be so tiring. But then again, love is a crazy thing. It’ll make you do nearly anything.
When she ended it though, she ended me. She ended everything I had to live for everything I had ever been able to cherish in my entire life. I imagined myself as an old man, living alone in a tired old flat with thirteen black cats and an excessive supply of Gouda cheese, and knew I simply couldn’t go on. My soul felt lost amidst my thoughts, my heart pounding harder, ready to rip through my chest when she uttered those last words: “I’m sorry Jamaal; you’re too chunky for me. This relationship is geometrically impossible.”
I told her I could change. I told her I could lessen the obtuse angle of my stomach and redeem myself. But no, she wouldn’t listen. She refused to believe that the SAS postulate could prove the new dimensions of my beater-belly, and left me for an isosceles-built Latino who worked on the beach as an umbrella renter.
From that day, I became the poultry in isle 3 that I had once courageously carried the distance of an entire supermarket. I became that weighty piece of chicken on the rack that people always struggled with, that nuisance in the freezer section that always gave you the chills and made you shiver when you came near it. Except this time, I had no one to carry me. I was the poor old little chicken egg who ever so delightfully managed to roll myself off of a cliff before having the chance to hatch, smashing myself into millions of tiny, sharp emo-tastic pieces upon hitting the concrete floor, throwing myself way beyond repair just like poor old little humpty dumpty. To think I used to laugh at that good back in the day when we had naptime in class. And from that day on, my life turned to crime.
Since then, I’ve thought about my decision many, many times. Surely more times than the number of sheep I can count before I go to bed, but definitely less than the distance from Earth to Pluto in inches. I think about the atrocious crimes I’ve committed since then too, shoplifting all of those cherry flavored cough drops and all of that cotton candy from the general store down the block. Through all my thinking though, I’ve never found a way out- a way to save myself from the terrible fate I foolishly bounded upon myself because I was irrationally in love. I’ve figured out why though- it’s because I still am. It’s because she’s still always the last thing I think about every night before I go to bed, and she’s still the first thing that comes to my mind when I wake up in the morning.
“I said maybe
You’re gonna be the one that saves
And after all
You’re my wonderwall.”
Next week would be three years, seven months. 184 weeks. It seems like only yesterday that I met her though, at the end of a supermarket in the poultry isle. The first time I saw her, I knew it was meant to be. Love at first sight doesn’t just happen in movies you know. She was struggling with the muscular, weighty chicken leg when I first approached her, offering my hand in assistance. I carried that thing all the way across isle 3 to her car- I never expected an errand like that to be so tiring. But then again, love is a crazy thing. It’ll make you do nearly anything.
When she ended it though, she ended me. She ended everything I had to live for everything I had ever been able to cherish in my entire life. I imagined myself as an old man, living alone in a tired old flat with thirteen black cats and an excessive supply of Gouda cheese, and knew I simply couldn’t go on. My soul felt lost amidst my thoughts, my heart pounding harder, ready to rip through my chest when she uttered those last words: “I’m sorry Jamaal; you’re too chunky for me. This relationship is geometrically impossible.”
I told her I could change. I told her I could lessen the obtuse angle of my stomach and redeem myself. But no, she wouldn’t listen. She refused to believe that the SAS postulate could prove the new dimensions of my beater-belly, and left me for an isosceles-built Latino who worked on the beach as an umbrella renter.
From that day, I became the poultry in isle 3 that I had once courageously carried the distance of an entire supermarket. I became that weighty piece of chicken on the rack that people always struggled with, that nuisance in the freezer section that always gave you the chills and made you shiver when you came near it. Except this time, I had no one to carry me. I was the poor old little chicken egg who ever so delightfully managed to roll myself off of a cliff before having the chance to hatch, smashing myself into millions of tiny, sharp emo-tastic pieces upon hitting the concrete floor, throwing myself way beyond repair just like poor old little humpty dumpty. To think I used to laugh at that good back in the day when we had naptime in class. And from that day on, my life turned to crime.
Since then, I’ve thought about my decision many, many times. Surely more times than the number of sheep I can count before I go to bed, but definitely less than the distance from Earth to Pluto in inches. I think about the atrocious crimes I’ve committed since then too, shoplifting all of those cherry flavored cough drops and all of that cotton candy from the general store down the block. Through all my thinking though, I’ve never found a way out- a way to save myself from the terrible fate I foolishly bounded upon myself because I was irrationally in love. I’ve figured out why though- it’s because I still am. It’s because she’s still always the last thing I think about every night before I go to bed, and she’s still the first thing that comes to my mind when I wake up in the morning.
“I said maybe
You’re gonna be the one that saves
And after all
You’re my wonderwall.”
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