The Order


 

Fluff

I was in the backroom at Starbucks because I was putting away The Order.

We get The Order every Wednesday because we need more things to make your stuff. I spend hours lifting heavy boxes full of things. I put the things on shelves so that some time later we can take those things from the back room and bring them to new shelves in the main store so that we can later take those things off the new shelves in the store and put them in refrigerators or cabinets so we have the things at hand to make stuff for you when you come to our store and want stuff.

This whole shelf changing process repeats itself for several days until we start to run out of things. They’re little things at first, things you probably wouldn’t notice if we left out, but by the time Tuesday rolls around we’ve run out of most of the things for your stuff, so we have to apologize and say we can’t make your stuff and offer you different stuff comprised of things we still have.

No one likes those things, though. The stuff that goes in them isn’t as good. People become angry because they waited in line for the stuff they like, not the stuff they don’t like, and they find it very irritating that we don’t have the things to make their stuff.

“Why don’t you have the things?” They ask. “I want my stuff. Just order more things so you can make my stuff.”

“I can’t order more things because I already ordered more things. The things come in on Wednesday, when the truck brings them. That’s why I go to the backroom on Wednesdays. I put the things on shelves so that later we can move those things to other shelves so that later we can put those things in refrigerators and cabinets and trays and use them to make stuff for you,” I say, “Sorry about your stuff. Have you tried this other stuff though? Some people say it’s nice.”

“I don’t want that stuff,” they say, “that stuff is junk.”

Sometimes people bring their own things from home and try to get us to put it in their stuff. They see with me with my apparatus and they say “can you put my thing form home in there? I like it. It’s nice.”

I can’t let them put their thing in there because their thing might be junk. If their thing is junk or came into contact with any junk while at home, then it might affect other peoples stuff.

I’ve seen it happen.

“Why does my stuff taste like junk?” she asks, wiping stuff off her lips with a napkin. “Did you put junk in my stuff?”

“I did not put junk in your stuff,” I tell her, “I only put things in your stuff.”

“Then why does my stuff taste like junk?”

I shrug, even though I know it’s because that one person a while ago brought junk form home and asked me to put it in my apparatus. They said it was a thing. I was pretty certain it was junk, but i put it in my apparatus anyway, and now everyone’s stuff tastes like junk and all I can do is apologize.

“I’m sorry your stuff tastes like junk” I apologize, “can I make you some new stuff?”

“Please,” she said, handing me her stuff. I dump her stuff out in the trash bin and wash my apparatus. Then I put things in it and make more stuff. I hand her the new stuff.

“Sorry about your old stuff, “I say, “you’ll like this new stuff though. It’s nice.”

Sometimes, though, I don’t have the things to her make her stuff because The Order hasn’t come in yet.

When that happens, you know someone is going to yell at you. People like their stuff. They want it to be nice, not junk, and when they think it’s junk they let you know.

“What’s wrong with her?” a toad-like woman asked me one time. I was cleaning the counter we put stuff on and my friend Peach was making the lady some stuff. “I’ve asked her to make my stuff without this thing twice, and she keeps making it with that thing! Is she retarded?”

I just shrugged. Sometimes people don’t want things that are hard to take out of their stuff. Peach wasn’t retarded. To this day she still remains very unretarded. She can make stuff well.

I wanted to tell the woman that she shouldn’t say retarded. I wanted to tell her she was being very rude.

I wanted to tell her it was just stuff.

It’s just stuff.

But I didn’t.

I knew she wouldn’t understand.

She really wanted her stuff.

People need stuff.

Not junk.

Stuff.

That’s why The Order comes in.

So every Wednesday I put The Order away. All that stuff. It goes up on its shelves in preparation for moving to new shelves in preparation for going into fridges and cabinets so I can put it in my apparatus to make you stuff and I look at all my things and I wonder…

Do we really need all these things?

Do you really need this stuff?

Do you?

starbucks

 

 

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An Accidental Correspondence with Kim Jong-un


I’ve been receiving strange emails in my inbox.  I think they’re from this guy:

In this image taken from video North Korean leader Kim Jong Un, center, salutes during a military parade marking the 65th anniversary of the country's founding, Monday, Sept. 9, 2013, in Pyongyang, North Korea. (AP Photo/KRT via AP Video) TV OUT, NORTH KOREA OUT

What follows is the entirety of our email exchange.

HELP!  I MIGHT BE TALKING TO KIM JONG-UN VIA ACCIDENTAL EMAIL.

Sent to thecorngoblinofficial@gmail.com from kimjong@nk.nk at 11:24 PM

친애하는 일반 황 ,

그것은 멈추지 않을 것입니다 ! 시끄러운 스피커 는 국경 을 통해 끊임없는 대중 음악 을 폭발 , 나는 나의 아름다움 잠을 얻을 수 없습니다 입니다. 당신은 포격 을 계속 해야합니다. 내 최대의 궁전 심지어 벽은 음악 밖에 없는 블록 ,하지만 폭발 금속 의 소리 는 확실 하지 . 또한 저녁 식사 목요일 밤 사용할 수 있습니까? 나는 나 자신이 점점 외로운 찾을 수 있습니다.

사랑 ,

김정은

Translated via google translate

Dear General Huang ,

It will not stop ! 
Loud speaker explosion of popular music through the endless frontier, 
I can not get my beauty sleep. You have to keep shelling .
 Even within the palace walls up to the block with only music , 
but the sound of exploding metal are not sure. 
It can also be used for dinner on Thursday night ? 
I find myself more and more lonely .

love ,

Kim Jong-un

My Reply

Dear Kim Jong-un,

I think you have the wrong email address.  I am no one of your generals.  I’m not sure how you possibly made this mistake.  Also, this can’t actually be the real Kim Jong-un. Is this some sort of scam? Send me a picture of you at your computer.

Sincerely,

The Corn Goblin

Sent to thecorngoblinofficial@gmail.com from kimjong@nk.nk at 11:28 PM

친애하는 옥수수 고블린 ,

어떻게 저를 믿지 감히 ? 내 말 은 금 이다. 내 입으로 는 하나님의 입 이다. 그것 에서 , 진리 는 깨진 베개 에서 깃털 처럼 떨어진다. 태양 광선 은 내 엉덩이 에서 와서 나는 방귀 때, 계피 냄새 , 하지만 난 단지 방귀 를 할 때 .

어떻게하면이 잘못된 이메일 주소 로 보내 나요?

여기에 사진 입니다.

진심으로,

김정은

Translated via google translate

Dear Corn Goblin ,

How dare you not believe me ? I mean, it is gold. 
My mouth was the mouth of God. 
In it, the truth will fall like a feather pillow from broken . 
When the sun's rays come in my ass , I fart , smell of cinnamon, 
but only when I fart .

How do I send emails to the wrong address?

Here is a picture .

Heartily,

Kim Jong-un

image

My Reply

Why are there so many people around your computer?  Why are you talking about farting?  Is there going to be war?  WHO DOES YOUR HAIR?

Sincerely,

The Corn Goblin

Sent to thecorngoblinofficial@gmail.com at 11:31 PM

친애하는 옥수수 고블린 ,

오 예.

온라인 내 장군 을 사칭 계속 하면 전쟁 이있을 것입니다.

나는 물론 , 내 자신의 머리를 않습니다. 누가 그렇게 잘 할 수 있을까? 내가 처럼 아무도 다른하나님 의 손 이 없습니다.

내가 다시 얘기 해야하는 경우 , 내가 당신을 죽일 암살자 의 치명적인 팀 을 보내드립니다.

최고의 소원,

김정은

추신

당신의 " 대통령은 오바마 대통령 이 " 그 빌어 먹을 음악을 거절 말한다.

아니면 .

Translated via Google translate

Dear Corn Goblin ,

Oh yes .

If you continue pretending to be online in general there will be a war .

I , of course, do my own hair . Who could be so good ?
 No one another the hand of God as I do.

Why do you keep talking about farts?  Damn this google translate.  
It messes up your english into my Korean.  I don't think very accurately.

If I have to talk again , I will send a team of deadly assassins to kill you .

Best wishes ,

Kim Jong-un

Postscript

Your " President Obama ," says reject the fucking music .

Or .

I did not contact him again, for fear of deadly assassins.  I think I learned something that day, though.  I learned that even iron fisted dictators have frustrations with technology, which sort of humanized Kim (as I now call him) a little bit.  I also learned that they apparently have access to Google in North Korea, and that Google Translate isn’t very accurate sometimes, be you a lonely blogger from Los Angeles, or a maniacal dictator from North Korea.

In that way, we’re sort of kindred spirits.  It’s the human condition, really.

Someone, please help me.

Please.

ninjaparty

The Obtuse Moose


Here’s a “two word” story I wrote a while ago.  Additionally, I must apologize for not posting anything in a while.  I’ve been finishing up my second screenplay.  It’s about a renaissance fair.

Anyway, heres this:

The chartreuse noose that hung from the gnarled spruce grew tight ‘round the neck of the obtuse moose.
His imminent mortality led him to deduce that alcohol abuse was no excuse to seduce the farmer’s wife.

The Field Trip


 

I had suffered my fair share of tragedy even at the tender age of 7 years old.  There was the time I dropped my treasured Christmas snow globe and it shattered all across the pastel orange adobe tiles of our kitchen, it’s pretty snowflakes glistening all the while.  At the time I had thought they had been mocking me, but I now realize that they had merely been, in their own way, waving farewell.  There was also the time that I had gotten a new kaleidoscope and then managed to get my pointer finger stuck in it.  It had been stuck with such ferocity that it took a handyman’s pliers to shatter the damn thing before he could get it off.  And then there was the time that my 2nd grade class took a field trip to a field.

 

     I have spent many hours wondering what had possessed the teachers to go on this trip.  What would make someone think kids would spending a whole day in a fucking field?  Boredom?  Madness?  Drugs?  I doubt my teachers acutely suffered from any of these things, and so I have now come to the conclusion that the school’s budget for field trips would decrease if the whole thing wasn’t used.  The teachers, not wanting to give up the awesome field trips like the Bluebell ice cream factory or Publix, stitched together a corpse of a field trip, strapped it to a metal table, and shot 10,000 volts of electricity into it to see if it would come to life.  It never did.  The real world, it seems, doesn’t work that way.  More’s the pity, really.  I can’t think of a more pleasurable experience than lying in one’s grave, contentedly dead, only to be woken up by a lighting bolt searing through one’s extremities and the demented cackle of some German scientist.

 

     Regardless of their intentions, it was the second worst field trip I’ve ever been on.  The worst one is still talked about in the hushed hours of the night by the students who participated in it, when the candlelight grows dim as the flame reaches the end of its tallow and a cool breeze makes the curtains flutter.  I dread even now to transcribe the horrible events that took place.

 

During my 7th grade year, a teacher of mine, let’s call her Mrs. Paperclip, had begun teaching some sort of conservation science course at a local university while she worked towards her doctorate.  She was an intelligent if not incredibly bothersome individual, and somehow managed to convince out middle school’s administration that the student should help her conduct her research.  She happily loaded us up into a crowded yellow bus without any air conditioning, madness in south Florida, and drove us out into the everglades, which I considered then, and still sometimes consider now, to be the most boring place on the planet.

 

     Most people seem to think the everglades is all water.  It isn’t.  There’s land too.  Land with soil that’s practically begging for a middle schooler’s trowel to dig it up and sample it’s density.  For 8 long hours.  In the late spring.  It was hell.  I’ve always been able to relate to movies like “O brother where art thou,” and “The Rundown,” because I’ve lived it.  I’ve been that convict smashing rocks on a Mississippi street, I’ve lived the life of one of Christopher Walken’s slaves in the diamond mines of South America.  We toiled and toiled and toiled.  The process was straightforward: one student held a piece of rebar with depth measurements on the surface of the soil, then another student struck it with a mallet until it hit rock, and and then the rebar student measured the depth. Lastly, a student with a trowel would come and take a soil sample.  Stab, bang, measure, dig; stab bang measure, dig; stab, bang, measure, dig.  I’m still surprised no one died from heat stroke.

 

     The field trip to the field wasn’t as bad as all that, but it was infinitely more disappointing.  No one ever pretended that the field trip to mine the everglades would be fun, and no one expected it to be.  We all knew what was asked of us, and we just kept calm and carried on with a sort of sullen persistance that would have made the British proud.  They told us the field trip to the field would be fun.  They said we would have a blast eating picnics and playing in all the flowers.  They said this field was special, that settlers used to live there and that the field was a national park.  They lied.

 

     Let me be the first to tell you that no field ever needs to be made a national park, unless maybe it’s the last field in existence, so that people can go to it and stand around dumbly for a few minutes before saying to one another “Well, that was positively awful.  I’m glad there aren’t any more of these left.” And then leave it and never come back.  A field is a field is a fucking field.

 

     We didn’t know this yet, and the trip there was a blast.  I recall that the bus was abuzz with the excited chatter of brainwashed second graders as it thundered across the lonely Oklahoma roads.

     “Did you hear?  They’re letting us go to a field!”

     “Can you believe that?  A real field!”

     “I’ve heard there’s flowers there.  Isn’t that right, Claire?”

     “Oh yes indeed.  Flowers of the deepest purples and brightest yellows.”

     “Oh lovely!  And grass too, I suspect.”

     “Yes, the sweetest grass you’ve ever seen.  Seas of the bloody stuff, I’ve been told.”

     “Wow.  We’ll be swimming in grass.  Up to our ears in it, I expect.”

     “Most certainly.  It will be like heaven, only closer to home.”

 

     There is much to be said for the incorruptible optimism of children.  It’s a beautiful thing to able to believe with all your heart that, for instance, Fast and Furious 6 will be better than the other 5, even though any sane person would think otherwise.  Adults don’t have this problem, and I think we’re jealous of kids.  That’s why we seek to eradicate it.  We won’t be happy until we hear children remark “that’ll be bullshit, just like the others” after they see a trailer for the Fast and Furious 6.  It’s a vicious cycle.

 

     We realized very quickly that the field was just a field.  That’s all it ever was, and I’m sure that’s all it will ever be.  It was covered in bees that day, so everyone was scared to leave the bus.  Once the teachers pushed us off, we sort of huddled in groups, assuming the bees would be fearful of attacked such a large number of humans, and tried to have fun.  It was too hot to play tag, and no one had any other games.  Fields don’t lend themselves to being good for make believe, unless we would have wanted to pretend to be the little house on the prairie.  Some got bored and tried to eat their lunches, only to be scolded that they would get hungry later if they ate now.  There weren’t even any trees, and the flowers and grass were just like the flowers and grass most of us had in our backyards, except that we had much nicer toilettes at home.

    

The didn’t lie about one thing, though.  I guess the field was a park of some sort, there were signs and everything.  How we hated them, those signs.  They promised fun times for anyone who came, but we didn’t believe them.  They were liars and we knew it.

 

     We finally left after a couple of hours, and I think we all left our optimism there, lying in the shitty flowers of the equally shitty field.  We had no need for it any more.  We had seen the real world: empty, hot and boring.  I remember getting into my mom’s old pewter Mercedes and her asking me “What did you guys do today?”

     “We went on a fieldtrip.”

     “Oh really, to where?”

     I remember almost laughing then at the absurdity of the question.  I remember it building in my belly like a tropical storm, waiting to become a hurricane, but thinking better of it.  To where?  Where else?  To a field.

Soon, Gentle Readers, soon!


Soon, Gentle Readers, soon!

I’m about to be back at school, and the blogging will recommence. I’ve got some good stuff planned for the summer, and i’ve found a few more peter articles for you die hards out there. And remember, listen to the sloth: FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS!

How to Get 3 Million Blog Views


Dear readers,

I’ve recently been working with a team of researchers from Miskatonic University, whose main goal is the delve into the lost recesses of cyber space and uncover long forgotten blog posts from blogs that, for one reason or another, came offline.  We’ve made some astounding discoveries.  This following piece is a prime example of some of the lost treasures we’ve found.

-The Corngoblin

**********************

3 MILLION VIEWS

3 MILLION VIEWS

Hi guys!  In case you’re new here, my name’s Peter, and I’ve got 3 MILLION VIEWS, and I’d like to show you how you can too.  You guys are obviously familiar with my work since, you know, you’re on the internet, so here we go!

HOW TO GET 3 MILLION VIEWS

I go on a lot of people’s blogs, normally just to post a spam comment so they come look at mine, sure, but it still counts, and there’s one thing I always notice.

They Aint Got 3 million views

Some barely have 1,000!  PATHETIC.  That got me to thinking, why does a famous, successful blogger like myself have so many views?  I mean, so many.  Is it fair that some bloggers get all the views, while other bloggers are relegated to the blogging slums, flighting each other for 10 views a day?  The short answer:

YES, IT TOTALLY IS

It’s called natural selection, or selective blogging, or maybe even blogctual naslection.  Survival of the fittest, and as anyone in the blogosphere could tell you, I’m the fittest, because baby, I’m survivaling.  I feel bad for those pathetic bloggers who don’t have any views, so I’ve decided to take the time out of my busy blogdule (blog-schedule LOL) to try and help those poor unfortunate souls.  First off, if you don’t have many views, then

YOU’RE PROBABLY A BAD WRITER: No offense, but you should just quit.  You’re wasting everyone’s time and taking valuable views away from people like me, who want to get 3 million more.  3 MILLION.

But for those ouf us who are good:

THERE’S HOPE

Follow this list and you too will get…

THREE!  MILLION!

THREE! MILLION!

  1. USE PICTURES: They say a picture is worth 1000 words.  I say a picture is worth:

THREEMILLION
VIEWS

The Joker and I have one similarity: He likes bullets and gasoline, and I like pictures.  What’s the similarity you ask?

joker cheap

Free, even.  So use pictures.  Not only do they get traffic back from google image searches, but they LOOK PRETTY AND ARE FUN TO LOOK AT.

2.GO CLICK LIKE ON OTHER PEOPLE’S BLOGS: They’ll come look back at yours.  Who cares if they don’t read?  It’s not reading you’re going for, its views.  You don’t even have to read they’re posts, just click “like”…

big jerk

3. WRITE SOMETHING CONTROVERSIAL OR OFFENSIVE, YOU IDIOT: If you make people mad, they’ll comment about how stupid you are, and tell their friends to come look at your stupid blog.  Everyone will hate you, but WHO CARES?  It’s the VIEWS.  For instance, did I tell you that Harry Potter is a STUPID IDIOT, and his books are so bad, I have no idea why he wrote them?  And that Lost is the worst thing to be on TV since they showed those videos of that school bus falling off a bridge?  LOL  And Reddit is for stupid fools that don’t know how to use 9gag.  And wordpress?  Don’t get me started on wordpress.  MYSPACE4LIFE, GEOCITES BITCH.

4. ENCOURAGE VIEWER FEEDBACK: Talk to people if they comment on your post.  IT’S ONLY POLITE.

5. DON’T WRITE BAD POSTS: If you write something that’s BAD, then people won’t want to read it.  So don’t write anything that’s bad. I know it comes easy for amazing bloggers like me, but that’s cause im a flippin GENIUS.

*****

After careful research, it was discovered that Peter had been slain, stabbed 30 times with a long knife at a meeting he had arranged for fans of his blogs.  Strangely, there were no witnesses, and none of the 30 fans who had shown up were called in for questioning.  Another internet mystery.

The day when we all get to be Irish, and some leprechauns show up too.


Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

St Patrick’s day is a day when everyone can pretend that they’re Irish, and no one, except maybe real Irish people, will correct you.  Like me, for instance: I’m part Irish.  Barely, true, but barely still counts.  It’s St. Patrick’s day and I have the right to, when asked if I’m Irish, harken back to that distant and far removed ancestor and respond, “why yes of course… um… me lass… I be Irish!  Now who wants a pint of Guinness?”  And then we’d all cheer and sing whisky in the jar or something, and the party goes on.

But ever since last St. Patrick’s day, I’ve been a bit afraid of claiming to be Irish.  Afraid that I’ll be caught.  It’s the Leprechauns, you see.  They  monitor these things, making sure that no one other than true Irish people claim to be Irish on St. Patrick’s day.  Before I learned this, I had always wondered what use Leprechauns were, other than terrifying Jennifer Anniston, though not quite enough it seems, (to death being the implication here).

Warwick Davis is the man.

Clearly, it didn’t.

Leprechauns are wee folk with fairy magic, at least at the most basic description.  If one were to apply to fill a vacant leprechaun position, the conversation would proceed as follows:

“Are yeh wee?” The interviewer would ask.  He could have just looked to see.  One wonders why he need ask, but that’s the way these sorts of things go sometimes.  It’s all about the protocol.

“Oh, aye.” Responds the applicant, which is generally considered to be the most correct answer.

“And have yeh the fairy magics?”

“Oh aye.  That I do.”

“Loverly.  Yer hired.”

What leprechauns actually do has very little to do with being wee or being able to wield the fairy magics.  Leprechauns are tasked with keeping Ireland green,  like a glittering emerald, and magic, like a magical emerald.  There’s a special division for rainbow production and installation as well, but we won’t get into that right now.

You think Ireland looks like that on it's own?  No, what you see here my friend is centuries of hard leprechaun work.

You think Ireland looks like that on it’s own? No, what you see here my friend is centuries of hard leprechaun work.

The leprechauns have one other task, however, that dwarfs (forgive the pun) all their other duties: to ferret out the fakes, liars, and would be Irishmen on St. Patrick’s day, and humiliate them in front of their friends.

It was an encounter with one performing it’s primary task that, as I hinted before, was nearly my undoing last year.  I was at McCabes Irish pub, down on 5th avenue in Naples, Florida, enjoying a $6 glass of Yeungling with some a of newest and bestest friends I’d ever met (their names escape me now, but I’m relatively sure they all had one) when the question was raised as to whether or not I was Irish.

mccabe's

Now, I have a rather good Irish accent (or at least that’s what I’m told) which, like all Irish accents, is increased both in quality and volume with every alcoholic beverage imbibed.  The current tally was 5, so my confidence in my Irish speaking ability was great indeed.

I had been regailing my new comrades with tales of the homeland: of helping St. Patrick chase away all the bloody snakes, of finding so many pots of gold at the end of rainbows, for rainbows are plentiful on the emerald Isle, that I just started throwing them away,  of screeching contests with banshees and Father Ted TV marathons.  They were entranced, and I was having a blast, that is until I felt a gentle but firm tap on my buttocks.

I spun around, fists up and out in traditional Irish fighting form, ready to give the buttocks tapper the old one two, or, if she were a lady, the old wink and smile, but there was no one there.  I turned back to my friends, who must have assumed that spinning around to fight ghosts was just some Irish idiosyncrasy that they were hitherto unaware of (on nights of heavy drinking it often is), and thought nothing of it, other than to give me a rousing cheer.

I went for a bow, and was touched on the buttocks yet again.  I spun around in the same way.

“Alright, yeh livrey bastard, time for me to give yeh what for!”  I shrieked, but yet again, there was no one there.  I looked left.  I looked right.  I looked up.  I looked down.

There stood a leprechaun.  He was wearing a little green suit with a shamrock in his pocket and a green bowler hat, and looked very cross.  He smiled a wolfish grin.

“Hello sir, me names Bleary and I’m—“

“Christ, lads, it’s a real leprechaun!”  I shouted, pointing at it in awe.  I started jumping from foot to foot and giggling.  Everyone at the pub gathered ‘round to gaze at the spectacle.  The Leprechaun shifted his feet, uncomfortable.

“I’m—“

“What’re yeh here for, little fellah?” I asked, like a mom to a child of 6.  He bristled at this and looked me dead in the eye.  God, those eyes!  They looked like gold doubloons!

“I’m here to see if yer really irish.”  He said matter of factly.

“Me?  Irish?  ‘Course I’m Irirsh!  What’s me shirt say?”

“Kiss me, I’m irish, but—“

“’Course it does!” I interrupted.  He scowled.

“But shirts can say any number of things.  Look at that lads!”  The leprechaun pointed to a fat, white man who was wearing a shirt that read “I’m the President”.

“My god…”  I whispered to the leprechaun, “Is that Barack Obama over there, d’yah think?”

“I—what?  No!  ‘Course not!  Are ye daft?” his question went unanswered though, because I had gone over to the fat man and was taking a photo with him.  The leprechaun stared in gawping silence as I snapped the photo and came back over.

“The lads back in Dublin are never gonna believe I met the President of the US of A!”

“Stop it!”  He shouted, stamping his little foot, which jingled.  “You’re not from Dublin and you’re sure as hell not Irish!  You’re just a drunk idiot from Florida!”

“Bah, Florida?  Have you seen his shirt?  It says—“ one of my new friends began before the leprechaun pointed his finger at him and ZAP, turned him into a cask of guinness.

“Sweet St. Patrick!” I gasped, staring at the cask.  “Free beer!”  The Leprechaun face palmed as we swarmed the cask and I passed out drinks.  I felt a bit bad for drinking that guy, but judging from what I’d learned about him in the past two hours, it’s what he would have wanted.

Poor... um... you.

Pour guy…

“Three cheers for our emerald homeland, lads and lassies!  Hip Hip!”

“NO!”  Roared the leprechaun, and the shout filled up the whole pub, shaking the windows and worrying he owner.  Some glasses fell off the shelves.  “Yer not Irish!  None of yah!  Yer just a bunch of drunken fools playin’ at bein’ Irish!  You don’t know the first thing, the first damn thing about what it is to be from Ireland.”   He paused and pointed at a man wearing a Bruins shirt. “Except for you.  You’re actually Irirsh.”  The bruins guy gave a fist pump and cheer, finished his glass, and ordered another.  “Now,” he said, returning to the task at hand, “will yeh stop, or do I have to turn you all into guiness?

The party was dead silent.  Even the band had stopped playing.  The leprechaun glared at us.  No one said a word, except for me.  I think it was the Guinness, but I was feeling particularly brave, like Willow, or Frodo Baggins, or Peter Dinklage, even.

“Why does it matter?” I asked.

“What?”

“Why does it matter if we aren’t Irish?”

“Because you all just want to be Irish on St Patrick’s day, and then it’s back to normal tomorrow!  It’s disrespectful.”

“Not really.  You should feel honored.  I don’t know any other country that has a day when the whole world wants to be them.  It’s a compliment.”

“Yeah!”  Someone else said.  “Ireland’s cool!”

“Here here!”

“Hoorah!”  The bar shouted.  Everyone at the bar started throwing their two cents in, and I could see we were getting through to the Leprechaun.  He was visibly softening.

“So will you have a pint of…” I looked at the cask.

“Jerry!” someone shouted.

“Will yeh have a pint of Jerry with us, and forget yer sorrows till the morrow?  Me lad?”

The leprechaun looked at each of us, scowling, until his eyes finally came to rest me.  And then he smiled.

“Yeh had me at jerry.”  He said with a wink.  To this day I’m not quite sure what he meant by that, but whatever, I was 7 beers deep and thinking wasn’t high on my list of priorities at the time.  We all cheered and the music started back up (whisky in the jar again ,I think).  The Leprechaun grabbed a pint of Jerry, and smashed it against mine.  My mug broke, and cut my hand quite badly, but it was St. Patrick’s Day, and a bloody and ruined hand was a small price to pay for getting to be Irish, even if it was just for a night.

*****

Author’s note: Thanks for reading.  Hope you liked it and I hope you have a great St. Patrick’s day, wherever you are.  I wanted to take time at the end of this post to thank Melissa K. Martin for giving me the “very inspiring blogger award”.  I’ll get around to doing the required things at some point, but it was a lovely gesture.  Happy St. Patrick’s day!

Travel


~On Traveling~

I started out this post wanting to prove to the world that traveling isn’t as good as everyone lets on.

Image

After looking through all these pictures, I’ve completely changed my mind.  It’s worth it.  It’s totally, unequivocally  irrevocably worth it.

dover castle

Now, you might think you can get away without traveling.  Take food, for instance.  One of the troubles with Europe nowadays is that the food is almost universal, at least from my experience.  Sure, the French food in France is better than the French food in London, but I can still get French food in London at far less cost, and they speak English, or at least I don’t feel quite as dumb when they don’t.  Same thing with Italian, German, Spanish, Russian (which I’ve never actually sampled.  Anyone know what russian cuisine is like?), it’s all there.  So that’s one less reason to leave.

churhc

All of this true, but when you eat a croque madame in a cafe in Paris, looking out the clear glass window into the bustling, twisting streets, and everyone is speaking Frech, and your completely happy to munch on your meal and play at guessing what they’re actually saying, you begin to understand a little bit more about France than you otherwise would have in your neighborhood pub with a croque monsier.

Travelling can seem daunting at times, though, and it can sometimes seem a bit boring, though it is, in fact, anything but.  Things just lose their glamour after a while.

Paris

Versailles, for instance, is great.  It’s a bloody huge palace that removes any pity you may have had for Marie Antoinette or the French aristocracy, because it is nothing if not absurdly opulent.  I Mean, look at this:

versailles chapel

My God!  Or try this one on for size:

Hall of mirrors

Now you can’t tell me that if you were a french peasant who had recently lost his favorite mound of dirt to a royal tax collector, you wouldn’t be more than a little upset when you saw this place.  Makes sense, right?

But that’s not really my point.  It’s actually the opposite of my point, for as I walked through Versailles, through room after disgustingly opulent room, I began to marvel less and less at the richness of the place.  Indeed, by the end of the tour I was quite blasé about it.

“Oh, look.” I’d mutter in a monotone to Jared, “Another jewel encrusted doorway…”

“Gee,” he’d say, “Havent seen that before.”

versailles ceiling

Just imagine how boring the world must have seemed back then if you were a king.  You’d be bored with Versailles, which was probably one of the most beautiful places in the world at the time.  What else is there?

Especially when you have statues of yourself looking like apollo enshrined all over the place.

Especially when you have statues of yourself looking like apollo enshrined all over the place.

And it kind of goes that way everywhere you travel. Another beautiful lagoon (BVI’s), another ungodly huge graveyard (Ypres), another monstrous church (Rome).  You get used to it, and pretty quickly I might add.  It’s not that the things are suddenly less good because you’ve seen a bunch of them, it’s that they just begin to become part of the scenery, to the point that you never notice them, and that if a tourist were to ask you where St. Paul’s was, you’ respond with “Well, i think it’s over there.  Not really sure why you want to go to that place.  It’s just a beautiful cathedral.”

st. pauls

But if you only go to these big places, you miss some of the other things.  The things that really make the trip special.  Like this.

amelie

It’s the cafe where they filmed Amelie.  Cities like paris are full of little treasures like this, hidden away from you as you run by, sprinting from Notre Dame to the Eifel Tower, a tattered map in one hand, fifty euro clutched in the other.

thames

So what’s my point?  I don’t really know.  Sometimes, you just write about something you love simply to write about it.

horse on hill

I guess my point is this: I’d encourage anyone planning a trip to take a step back and think, really think, about what it is you want to do.  Nine times out of ten I would bet it’s not run yourself ragged seeing every single big, famous thing in the city, because when you rush through, you miss the little things, the tasty things that make traveling worth it, and make life worth living.  You miss wandering down the alleys that only locals use, and watching street performers, and rushing off before the end because you don’t have the money to pay them, or leaning against a brick wall and sipping on mulled wine in Covent Garden Market as you people watch, or simply sitting on a bench and watching the river flow on by..

I'll leave you with a caption from the best worst movie ever, "The Room"

I’ll leave you with a caption from the best worst movie ever, “The Room”

100 Years of Solitude


The beginnings of Lego City are as mysterious as they are trivial, and as mythical as they are stupid.  I was there, at the beginning of things, and I am quite certain I shall be there at the end, quite certain indeed, but despite concentrating all of my mental faculties and straining them to the breaking point, I cannot recall it’s founder, nor even when it’s first brick was laid.

Some say the great builder Osferth the Selfish built the first structure, a low ceilinged bunker, resplendent in its multicolored bricks of glimmering plastic, and that it was he who first discovered the mysterious orbs that the settlers later used as a currency.  I tend to agree with this opinion.  Osferth’s mother works as a secretary at the school where we have camp, and he was always in the room early.  He would have had ample opportunity to begin the initial construction, an the drive and willpower to do it.

Others say that Martin the cruel, upon discovering the mysterious orbs, was the creator, and that he used a vast slave army to build the metropolis that he later ruled with an iron first.  It is true, I admit, that Martin was and is Lego City’s chief supporter, and that he was among its first citizens, but Martin lacks the creativity and intelligence to begin such a great project, though he does posses the tyrannical disposition to see it through to the bitter end, regardless of the cost.  It is therefore unlikely that he started lego city, but he did end up ruling it as Lego Cities Dictator and Grand Generalissimo.

Pictured: Martin in the future

Perhaps it was his south American heritage that gave him the propensity toward totalitarian rule,or perhaps he was simply dropped as a baby. Perhaps he regretted his decisions when the bombs began to fall, and the once gleaming towers of the business district were reduced to so many brightly colored bricks, and his empire crumbled around him, but I doubt it.  Repentance is a mysterious, unknown concept to Martin, one which he treats with a sort of bemused curiosity, like one would a dancing squirrel.

Still others believe that the city was constructed by the old ones, in the ancient times before camp had begun, and that all of the lego leaders of the modern era “were merely pretenders, desperately clinging to the past and monolithic structures they could not understand.  I do not give much credit to this theory, either.  I was there at the beginning of camp.  It was Schultz and I who cleaned the room, and put up the decorations, and I do not remember anything being on the fabled Lego table, other than barely perceptible memories of Lego Cities past, like faded ruts in an old dirt rode.

lego futurama

I’m so happy Futurama is back on TV.

Regardless of its creator, Lego City quickly took the group of second grade boys into it’s room temperature, polymer embrace.  Houses, offices and stores began popping up at an alarming rate, like weeds in a neglected garden, or perhaps like overused memes on Facebook.

http://twistedsifter.com/2012/02/top-10-what-my-friends-think-i-do-vs-what-i-actually-do-posters/

CURSE YOU ZUCKERBERG! AND 9GAG, TOO!

But things were growing too quickly.  Far too quickly.  Being second graders, the boys had no concept of economics or conservation, and were unaware that the capitalist society they were nourishing into adulthood required a constant influx of new materials to survive.  Growth, it is said, was it’s beating heart, and growth, it is said, would be its doom, but for now, the boys merely built, blissfully unaware of the deadly quagmire into which they walked.

“This will last forever!” Martin cheerfully told Timmy as he added yet another brick to his mansion.

“Yeah!” Timmy slobbered, “We’ll never stop!”

Interestingly, the economy and culture of lego city evolved at an accelerated rate than regular societies.  In the early days, Lego city was a lawless frontier, where a ship got you a job, and a gun helped you keep it.

Ahem…

Bank robbing was the citizens main source of income, but there was a sharp falloff in profit when everyone realized that A: Banks weren’t a safe place to keep their mystical orb money anymore and B: they were doing nothing but stealing their own money.  Everyone began to build lego safe rooms in their lego houses that had lego drawers that were perfect for holding their lego money.  The lego economy then evolved to simply hoarding as much money as possible and not letting anyone else take it.

Things were coming to a head, and it was around this time that the first lego governments began to form.  Martin was unanimously elected by himself to be lego president and mayor of Lego City, due to his being the only surviving “founder” of lego city since Osferth left camp for a family vacation, and his constant and unstoppable bullying.

With Martin’s ascendancy to the presidency of Lego City, things took a turn for the worst.  His first act was to take most of everyone’s money, which angered all of the other campers.  I never found out what his reasons for stealing the orbs were, but I can only assume it went to feed a bloated lego military budget and lego social programs, which he plundered at whim.  This happened during the second week of camp, and schultz and I had noticed a subtle shift in the group dynamics.   Kids seemed angrier than normal, as if some unseen force was slowly draining all their happiness.  By the end of the week, kids were fighting all of the time, arguing with one another and even punching and kicking occasionally.

“Charles!”  Timmy complained, running up to me and tugging on my athletic shorts, nearly pulling them off.  “Martin’s stealing all of our money!”

“It’s not money!  And Stop pulling!” I growled, slapping his hand away.  “It’s just little plastic orbs.  They aren’t worth anything.”

“They are too!”

“How?”

“Because we said they are!”

“Do you even buy anything with them?”

“Um… no?”

“So why does it matter?”  Timmy paused, staring up into the ceiling, lost in thought.  I can only assume that he was formulating various arguments.  He finally decided, after around 4 minutes, in which I just stood there, glaring at him, to go with

“But Martin stole my…”

“It’s not real!  None of it is!  These orbs are worthless!  You here me?  They have no intrinsic value!  Your getting upset over nothing!”  Timmy stared at me again, slowly cocking his head to the right, looking at me as if I were some sort of madman.  He took a few hesitant steps backwards, not looking away, and then ran back to the group.  I’m not sure if anything was ever reconciled with Martin,  but I had a good shout at Martin to share and be nice, and the mere illusion of punishment might have been enough to calm the kids down.

It was at the beginning of week three that the true disaster struck.  The Lego mine beneath the table ran dry, and the growth came to a screeching halt.  Their lego economy had been built assuming that there would always be an unending stream of legos, and worse still, that they would never have to recycle any from the already built buildings, despite the fact that many of them were not being used.  The citizens turned to Martin to lead them through this crisis, and he initially sought help from a higher power, me.

“Um, Charles,” he said in his latin accent, “we’re out of legos.”

“Too bad.” I said.  Legos were none of my concern.  Trust me, I checked my contract.

Martin then decided to try and redistribute the legos, but it was too late.  The other citizens had been displeased with him since his ascendency, and that displeasure turned to dislike when he stole from them, and that dislike turned to outright hatred when he failed to solve the lego crisis and tried to steal even more of their legos.  Things were looking very bleak for Martin, very bleak indeed, and so he did what all desperate leaders do when there is no clear solution.  He declared war.  On Lego China.

It probably looks something like this

Now, let me make it clear that there is no Lego China.  Well, at least not in our club house.  I assume that Lego has a Chinese branch, and I’m sure there is a Chinese themed set of legos, but as far as Lego City was concerned, they were at war with, well, nothing.

I’m not sure what Martin hoped to accomplish.  I suppose he was hoping that he could distract the other campers from the present economic crisis by giving them a “real” enemy to fight.  He immediately set in motion a draft of all of the legos campers had at home, in order to build warships, x-wings and light sabers, the staple of any modern army.  Supplies, however, were few and far between, thanks largely to the campers’ parents’ blockade of all lego goods leaving their houses.  Tempers began to rise, and Martin was once again in need of some outside help.  Fortunately for him, Schultz, my co-counselor, had a hatred for Lego City as irrational as it was voluminous.

He had been secretly stealing legos from the campers for days, and had thrown his lot in with the fictitious Lego Chinese and constructed a gargantuan nuclear lego bomb.  Schultz warned the campers that the Lego Chinese were none to pleased that the citizens of Lego City had declared war on them, and had prepared a preemptive and unstoppable nuclear attack.  He warned that they had one day to evacuate Lego City, before it was burned to the ground.

The reactions were mixed.  Some prudent campers, like Chris, Martins cousin and second in command, built lego caravans to carry their vast lego goods out of town.  Others were more doubtful that any attack would be forthcoming.

Flee! Flee!

“He can’t blow up our city.”  Timmy slurred to Roger, another evacuating camper.  “He just can’t!  Counselors can’t drop nuclear bombs, right?”  Roger shrugged, and strapped another lego bundle to the roof of his lego car.

“Of course not!” Said Martin, standing tall in front of their magnificent city.  “I urge all of my Lego Brothers to stay.  We are a safe, thriving community!  The idea that some “lego Chinese lego nuclear lego bomb” can destroy our mighty lego city is simply preposterous.”

Only about a quarter of the campers evacuated that day.  They were they lucky ones.  Around 9:07 A.M the following morning, an unusual object was reported to be flying at an alarming rate towards Lego City.  The authorities attempted to explain it away by claiming it was nothing but a rogue lego weather balloon, but as the object grew neared, it became clear to all watching that it was not balloon shaped at all but was, in fact, a gigantic cube.

Ahem…

The cube came into a holding pattern over lego city at 9:08.  Martin assured everyone that it was nothing to be afraid of, but then the bay doors opened, and Schultz’s cube began to rain unholy lego nuclear fire down upon the decrepit Lego City.

It was a massacre.  The populous had been taken completely unaware, and were therefore unable to defend themselves from the lego onslaught.  Whole skyscrapers were smashed to their foundations with but one mighty swoop of Schultz’s right hand, while the left smashed houses to bits in seconds.  A mere minute later, Lego city was completely gone, wiped off the face of the lego table, and all the blocks had been relocated to the cavernous drawer beneath.

The first democratic and fair lego elections were held soon thereafter, and George, the nicest and most level headed of all the campers, was elected to be the new president.  The office of mayor was done away with, and George’s first act in office was try Martin for treason and criminal negligence.  He lost, and it was decided that he should face the wrath of the lego firing squad.  Martin protested, of course he did, but his pleas were silenced by the the supreme court judge, Schultz.

A short time later, as he faced the lego firing squad of his former friends and subjects, generalissimo Martin was to remember that distant afternoon when he and his friends at camp built a city out of nothing but legos.

Dr. Who? Faustus, I think.


“I’m terribly sorry sir, but I can’t help you.”  The overweight Barista told me from behind the safety of her nigh impenetrable counter.  She probably wouldn’t be so impertinent outside of her fortress, down here with the rest of us.

“Yes, but I asked for a cappuccino, and you gave me a latte.”

“I thought I was doing you a favor!”  She said indignantly.  “The latte has more drink in it.  They’re pretty much the same thing, anyway.”   I took a step back in shock, looking both disgusted and horrified at the same time.  Such blasphemy couldn’t be tolerated.

“And you call yourself a barista?” I queried accusingly.  “The same thing?   I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

“Sir, if you could please go enjoy your beverage somewhere else…”

“I shall do nothing of the sort until I have received a full refund.  I remember a time, maybe 8 years ago when you “baristas” would give a customer a free drink for nearly any mistake.  You’d even do it if you didn’t write their name on the cup…”

“Well, times have changed, old-timer,” she spat, “The economy’s in the shitter, and I’ve got $40,000 in student loans to repay, so if you wouldn’t mind, could you just fuck off?

I was aghast, shocked into utter silence.  Not only had this… this teenagee used colorful language, but she had called me an old timer.  I’m only 23, though my stupendous beard might confuse and/or bewilder the weak of mind into thinking I was far older.  I sputtered in rage for a moment, and then picked up my drink and stormed outside, being none to gentle on the door, let me tell you.

“The Nerve!  The Gaul!  The…” I paused, looking for a word that was fleeting away from me like a golden ticket from the hand of a pudgy and especially clumsy child during a stiff wind.  The child fumbles madly with the ticket, but the golden paper continues to slip through his grasp, despite the disgusting stickiness of his fingers, until it is clear even to him that he will never see it again. We sigh, the child and I, as we slowly realize that we would never get to tour the damn factory.

Impishness?” asked a peculiarly high pitched and impish voice.  I spun around and saw Hillary Clinton, much to my surprise.  Something was wrong, however, and it took me a moment to realize that she had remained completely motionless for the short time I had been staring at her.  And she was in Black and White.  And that I was staring at a newspaper that was completely obscuring someone, presumably the person who had provided me with my word.

“Why yes, that was just the word!  Thank you!  May I join you, good sir?”

“But of course!  And you are?”

“William, and you?”  I politely asked.  He laughed a maniacal, high pitched laughter, and then lowered the newspaper in a dramatic blur,  The first thing I noticed was that he had red skin.  The second thing I noticed was the horns and fangs.  The last thing was the tail.

“The Devil!”  He responded coyly, smirking.  “But my friends call me Mephisto?”

“Why?”

“Oh, they think it has a certain sort of Gothic chic to it…”

“No, I mean why are you hear?”

“To help you, William.  Why else?”

Please imagine the devil talking with the voice of the robot devil.

“Help me?” I asked, confused.  The devil was the first celebrity I had ever met, and I was somewhat uncertain as to what was going on.

“I couldn’t help but overhear you and the rotund barista arguing, and I was appalled by both her rudeness and poor customer service.”

“OK.  So what?”

“So this!  I could help you exact your revenge upon the pudgy brewer.”

“Really?

“Oh yes.  Revenge is one of my specialties!”

“That sounds great!  I can’t wait to… wait… this isn’t going to be on of those “deal with the devil” deals is it?”  I asked suspiciously.  Satan laughed.

“Of course not!”

“So you’re not going to try and steal my soul or something, right?”

“Definitely not.”  He purred as he pulled out parchment and a pen from… somewhere.  “Now, if you just sign  here, our deal will be struck.

“Fantastic!” I exclaimed, grabbing the pen and leaning over to sign.  The devil began a deep chuckle as I leaned forwards.  “I can’t wait to see the look on her face when… wait a second, how do I know you are the actual devil, and not just some alien or ghost or something?”

“Could an alien do…this?”  He pointed his finger at a car, which exploded in a ball of hellfire.  No one around seemed to pay any attention to the inferno raging in the parking lot, which was curious, but I decided it must have just been another facet of his amazing powers.

“I don’t know.  Probably.”  I answered.  The devil scowled at me, somewhat annoyed.

“What about this?”  He waved his hands at a pedestrian across the street from us.  Nothing happened at first, but then the concrete beneath him began to crack and smoke.  A flaming hole appeared, through which a demonic red light and some skeletal demon hands emerged, accompanied with the howling screams of the damned.  The pedestrian, who had been enjoying what appearing to be some sort of sub, noticed far too late that something was amiss, and was pulled underground, kicking and screaming as the hole closed.  Nothing was left but some scratch marks and a slightly burning shoe.

“Neat!  If that doesn’t prove it, I don’t know what does!”  I declared, grabbing the parchment and signing it.  “So, what next?”

“Simple.” The devil said, rolling up the parchment and secreting it… somewhere on his person.  He pulled out a small date book and began flipping through the pages.

“Whats that?” I asked.

“Oh this?  It’s just a little thing in which I keep all the hopes and desires of mankind.”

“And you keep it in a book?  What is this, 1831?”

“Very funny,” he said dryly.  ” So I suppose you have some sort of device that holds all of the hopes and desires of mankind, hmm?”

“Yeah, It’s called an iPhone 4 and the internet.”  The devil looked up from his reading and glared at me.  The ground began to shake and a small hole appeared under my chair.  A demonic arm snaked out of the hole and snatched my phone away, and then disappeared into the ground with a slight hiss.

“Hey!  That was expensive!”

The devil ignored me and continued flipping through his book.  It seemed rather small to hold all of the hopes and desires of mankind, but I suppose that the Prince of Darkness knows what he’s doing.

“Here it is!  Lauren Wicker, 18, Barista.  Let’s see… small dog, lives with her parents, just graduated highschool, excessively poor marks.  No, none of this will do.  Maybe… aha!  Says here that she is in love with Robbert Pattinson and Justin Bieber, and hopes that they will one day fight to the death over her.”

“Really?” I asked, leaning forward and trying to catch a glimpse at the page.

“Stop that!” Satan scolded, pulling the book away.  “That’s private!  And yes it does say that.  Now, William, watch.”  Satan gestured towards the inside of the Starbucks, and I watched through one of the giant glass windows that covered the half of the store and masqueraded as walls.

Lauren was reading a newspaper behind her counter, when she heard a bell ring.  she looked up to see none other than Robert Pattinson, Justin Biebeer, and the entire band One Direction standing in front of her, arms crossed and scowling.  Laurens scream lasted for a good 10 minutes, and managed to clear the Starbucks of the remainder of its patrons.  The celebrities waited, patient but annoyed, until the shrieks at last ended.

“We hate you, Lauren,” Robert hissed, uncovering his ears, “and we never want to see you again.”

“What?  Why?” Lauren rasped, putting a hand to her chest.

“Because you’re stupid.”  Justin answered coldly.  He glanced around and then knocked over the rack of CD’s in front of the cash register.  “What are you gonna do about it, four eyes?”

“But I don’t wear glasses!”

“Shut up.”

“Why is this happening?”  Lauren screamed, falling to her knees and beating her shoulders and chest as if she were in a Greek tragedy of old.

“Because you’re rude to your customers, Lauren.  Especially that guy.” Robert chided, pointing at me.  I waved back.

“I’ll never do it again!  I promise!  Please, no!” Lauren pleaded, but it was too late.

“It’s too late, Lauren.”  Said one of the guys from One Direction.  “In fact, you’ve so turned us all off of women that we think we’re gonna be gay for a while.  Come on guys, let’s get outta here!”  Justin made a threatening gesture as the rest of the crew left, and then he too went, but only after stealing a cake pop.

“Wow!  That was Stupendous!” I shouted over the sound of Lauren bawling.  “Thanks, Lucifer!”

“No problem, William.  Now, if I could just have your soul…”

“Hey!  You said this wouldn’t be a deal with the devil.”

“Yeah.  And then you went ahead and made a deal.  With the devil.”

“Oh.”

Yes.”

“But I don’t think it’s my soul you’ll be wanting.”

“Why not?”  The devil asked slyly.

“Check the signature, my friend.”  The devil eyed me suspiciously and then snapped his fingers.  The parchment appeared floating in the air, and he grabbed it and unrolled it, never once taking his eyes off of me.  After quite some time he finally looked down.

“BARACK OBAMA?” He screamed, glaring at the paper, which began to singe along the edges.

“Yup.”

“But that’s… that’s just dastardly!”

“Yup.”  The devil glared at the parchment a few seconds longer, and then crumpled it up and threw it away.

“Well fine, I guess I’ll take him.  Somebodies got to burn, after all.”

“It’s ok.  We don’t want him anymore.  You can have the economy too.”

“Ha!” The devil said as he opened up a hole.  “I got that years ago!  Till we meet again!  Muwahahaha!”

“Ok, see you later Satan!” I called after him as he leapt into the hole and it closed up after him.  The rest of my day was pretty good, too.  I went back into Starbucks, made myself a coffee, cleaned out all of the pastries (Lauren was too preoccupied weeping to care), and then went home and watched Stargate SG-1 until i fell asleep.

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