Dear Children,
Ahhh. . .so good to hear from you. It is like the feeling of a cold blast of well water hitting the tongue on a hot summer day. It is like the feeling of unloading a massive whitehead on your forehead right before leaving for school.
Papa C, so sorry to hear about Essentials; I will be experiencing the wrath of Turtle Man tomorrow when I attempt to cancel my membership, only to hear him spout out complete nonsense. Wily C, glad to see you're as crazy as ever. . .let's keep the bleez knees going.
To the rest of my family who haven't responded, you can lick the sweat from my crack.
Today, while at work, I was pondering the many idiosyncracies among our kind; this spawned from a strangely stout man who stood above a urinal, purposely urinating into the little cup of water. Is this common? Do any of you do it?
I figure, and maybe it's because of my height, that it's completely normal to pee against the wall of the urinal. First of all, it doesn't create much noise, and second, it prevents splashing. The last thing I want when I'm draining is a bunch of it splashing back at me. Pee goes out and stays out, that's what I say. (Unless you happen to be Bear Grylls. . .then you soak shirts in pee and wrap them around your head. . .all while occasionally enjoying a tasty sip). . .
This brings another question. If you had to drink a bottle of urine, would you rather have it cold or warm? This question baffles me. Normally, these types of decisions don't require much thought. . .brews are good cold, coffee hot, women hot. But pee? I'm not sure. . . .I guess if I had to decide, I'd probably prefer it warm than cold. . .the thought of tipping back a cold bottle of pee makes me shudder.
Well, that's enough for today's musings. If any of you other Chaunsons would care to write something, I would greatly appreciate it. . .it's not like you have anything better to do. . .I mean, you can lie to us and say you do, but we all know you're as worthless as the next piece of garbage next to you. How about I shove my foot in your anal cavity?
Grandpa C
Friday, February 29, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Whoa Whoa Whoa!
Who let Grandpa C near the computer again?
You know how worked up he gets around shiny buttons and advanced forms of technology. I leave the room for one minute/week and proverbial shit-take mushrooms hits the electronic breeze-producer. Very irresponsible of you fellow chauns. You know how dangerous it is letting Grandpa C expose his rapidly deteriorating mind to an unprepared populus.
Bad chauns.
Grandpa, please stop handing out Werther's for the remainder of the evening.
And look at him. So cold in lonely is his recliner. Feebly wrapped in the remains of an aged quilt, one which appears as though it could have come from the bottom of a Cracker Jack's box. Or possibly redeemed for several thousand Tootsie Pop wrappers, you know, the ones with the Indian poised to shoot down a celestial body with his mere bow and arrow. Oh what unabashed optimism my naive Indian brother!
Oh my, what a rude Chaun I have become. I have failed to introduce myself. Well with no further ado...
Ahoy fellow literates! Congratulations on being able to combine groups of letters in order to decipher words. This blog is going to fit into your life quite nicely (as long as you greatly value trivial ramblings).
For the record, this is young Wily Chaun, who also responds to Funluvin chaun, Shotmakin chaun, Deep/shallow chaun or even "cars tryin drive."
Again I apologize for my absence. I was halfway across the neighborhood, again entranced in my lifelong quest for the perfect apple. I thought I had finally discover it too by the way, until, upon further inspection it lacked the single, kelly green, leaf that protrudes from it's perfect stem. Not to mention it also lacked a wide-eyed, smiling worm (that may or may not be wearing tiny glasses, spouting propaganda about an-apple-a-day, or how fun it is to read).
More you ask?
I am 25 going on 2 & 1/2.
I am legally homeless, therefore I do not actually exist. More a memory than a man.
I am also a hopeless romantic who has yet to be properly diagnosed. A qualified pro-bono publico pediatrician is so hard to come by. Recommendations?
Well if you'd pretty-please accept my apology I'll do my best to make sure Grandpa C doesn't get too carried away with the "fancy Internet box" again. We do all agree that his slow slipping into senility not be exposed for the world to see. Good thing this blog is only viewed by fellow chauns and the occasional middle-school library goer who is merely doing research for a paper on Werther's candy.
Until we meet again, may the Chaun be with you.
Response to Grandpa & an Essential Rant
Now you can understand why I’m so fired up to provide Grandpa Chaun/Giant Human an outlet to the outside world. I mean, 3 of his children live with him and he’s out on the sidewalk, fallen, throwing whittled sticks at helpless squirrels, screaming for his children to come visit him, mumbling about the Oregon trail… my neighbors called the other day to say that some crazy giant man was cooking squirrel over open fire in the back yard… this is not normal… and you must know all of it.
Last night I visited Essentials/"the gym that was sweet until someone had the great idea to move it."
It was my first visit since the “good for business” move… and I was less than impressed. Where a once proud, intimate gym experience existed, now exists a fallen, slightly grungy “bigger” facility that exists under a for lease sign, inside a chain linked gated property, on a one way street, with the worst stop light possible leading out to Hwy 55 and I94 (see map). It’s impossible to get to, a dangerous drive from 3120, and once you’re there, you’re working out in a sea of misery. Bad lighting abounds, along with zero, wait, yep, zero mirrors in the workout section. I guess the view isn’t bad, if you like looking out at Olson Memorial Parkway and the remains of a once booming industrial part of town (Use your imagination, the view sucks). The wonderful people of essentials again did not feel that toilets are a good part of a locker room, and although everything is pretty new, it just feels old. The water cooler is gone, replaced by a water fountain that wasn’t functioning that day. When you finally get there, you’ll work out with zombies who look like they’re just riding out their bad contracts until they can join another gym… oh, and the radio is tuned to jack FM, so you have to hear crappy music and commercials while you work out…One of the best parts of Essentials, Bolo and Amara weren’t even there. Weren’t they always training people around 5:00 at the old place? Where are their clients?
Our boy tried telling me that they’d signed on 250 new people to new contracts… yeah right, I’m sure people just drive by that place and want to join a gym there… not in a million years.
I have to say that I feel bad writing all of this, because Essentials has been a big part of my, and 3 or 4 other chaunsons’ lives for the past year plus. I love Amara, I love Bolo, and I loved the old essentials to the core. That’s why I recommended it to whoever asked. But the new Essentials? I just don’t get it. Why take something that is so good and mess with it? To grow a couple hundred people? To take a little bit off your overhead? Ridiculous.
Anyway, here’s to the old essentials. And here’s to having the guy who signed us up add the words “after 9 months, ok to cancel without fee” to our contracts.
Papa
Last night I visited Essentials/"the gym that was sweet until someone had the great idea to move it."
It was my first visit since the “good for business” move… and I was less than impressed. Where a once proud, intimate gym experience existed, now exists a fallen, slightly grungy “bigger” facility that exists under a for lease sign, inside a chain linked gated property, on a one way street, with the worst stop light possible leading out to Hwy 55 and I94 (see map). It’s impossible to get to, a dangerous drive from 3120, and once you’re there, you’re working out in a sea of misery. Bad lighting abounds, along with zero, wait, yep, zero mirrors in the workout section. I guess the view isn’t bad, if you like looking out at Olson Memorial Parkway and the remains of a once booming industrial part of town (Use your imagination, the view sucks). The wonderful people of essentials again did not feel that toilets are a good part of a locker room, and although everything is pretty new, it just feels old. The water cooler is gone, replaced by a water fountain that wasn’t functioning that day. When you finally get there, you’ll work out with zombies who look like they’re just riding out their bad contracts until they can join another gym… oh, and the radio is tuned to jack FM, so you have to hear crappy music and commercials while you work out…One of the best parts of Essentials, Bolo and Amara weren’t even there. Weren’t they always training people around 5:00 at the old place? Where are their clients?
Our boy tried telling me that they’d signed on 250 new people to new contracts… yeah right, I’m sure people just drive by that place and want to join a gym there… not in a million years.
I have to say that I feel bad writing all of this, because Essentials has been a big part of my, and 3 or 4 other chaunsons’ lives for the past year plus. I love Amara, I love Bolo, and I loved the old essentials to the core. That’s why I recommended it to whoever asked. But the new Essentials? I just don’t get it. Why take something that is so good and mess with it? To grow a couple hundred people? To take a little bit off your overhead? Ridiculous.
Anyway, here’s to the old essentials. And here’s to having the guy who signed us up add the words “after 9 months, ok to cancel without fee” to our contracts.
Papa
Amid These Ramblings and Sentiments
Six days now; It's been so long since the sound of my children's voices rang true in my ears. I would search for the others, but alas, I am a grandpa and my body is weak. I am frail. I cannot sustain myself much longer. I find myself whittling wood, creating knives and spears and such. Apparently my instinct is preparing me for the battle that imminently lies ahead. Should my children permanently abandon me, I will be left to discover ways to keep my body alive. Though my words appear bleak, and my body like a pile of toothpicks, pipecleaners, and Fruit Stripes gum, I will find a way to survive.
I changed my food rations from "meager" to "scraps" status (see Oregon Trail), and today I was forced to hunt down my food for the next week. Alas, I was not able to escape the confines of my own front yard; I slipped on an ice patch on the front sidewalk and landed face-up in a snowbank. From there, I began hurling my whittled spears and knives at any living creature that happened to pass by, hoping to catch a few pounds of fresh, fleshy meat for my next meal. I had three "hits," one of which was a small child passing by with his mother. After she had discovered the source of her child’s screaming and bawling, I became the recipient of my own death weapon. Determined not to give up, however, I launched two more spears at a squirrel in the tree above. Bullseye.
I managed to pull myself into the safety of my home and into my walker with my bloody squirrel carcass. Cleaning the squirrel proved to be no easy task however, as the flanks of a squirrel are anything but bountiful. Nonetheless, I cooked them over an open flame and dressed them over a pile of grass I managed to grab from the front yard when I was withering in pain from the spear-induced puncture in my leg caused by the crazy, googly-eyed mother.
As I finished digesting the last few blades of grass, I stared out the window once again, hoping to see my precious Chaunson children returning home from an adventurous day in the mountains and woods, smelling of farts and Natty Lite. I hoped the phone would ring, only to hear the the voice of little Emo Chaun or little Baby Chaun. I had hoped my only convicted, estranged grandson, known as the Bike Seat Sniffer, and notorious for his crude acts in public bathrooms, would write a response to my pleas for company.
Amid these ramblings and sentiments, I realized that I may very well suffer the pangs of loneliness and rejection within these walls should I not act. My children no longer care for me. It is apparent I must fight this fight alone. I declare war on the world. As Pac once said, “It’s just me against the world.” Bring it on you grublets.
Grandpa C
I changed my food rations from "meager" to "scraps" status (see Oregon Trail), and today I was forced to hunt down my food for the next week. Alas, I was not able to escape the confines of my own front yard; I slipped on an ice patch on the front sidewalk and landed face-up in a snowbank. From there, I began hurling my whittled spears and knives at any living creature that happened to pass by, hoping to catch a few pounds of fresh, fleshy meat for my next meal. I had three "hits," one of which was a small child passing by with his mother. After she had discovered the source of her child’s screaming and bawling, I became the recipient of my own death weapon. Determined not to give up, however, I launched two more spears at a squirrel in the tree above. Bullseye.
I managed to pull myself into the safety of my home and into my walker with my bloody squirrel carcass. Cleaning the squirrel proved to be no easy task however, as the flanks of a squirrel are anything but bountiful. Nonetheless, I cooked them over an open flame and dressed them over a pile of grass I managed to grab from the front yard when I was withering in pain from the spear-induced puncture in my leg caused by the crazy, googly-eyed mother.
As I finished digesting the last few blades of grass, I stared out the window once again, hoping to see my precious Chaunson children returning home from an adventurous day in the mountains and woods, smelling of farts and Natty Lite. I hoped the phone would ring, only to hear the the voice of little Emo Chaun or little Baby Chaun. I had hoped my only convicted, estranged grandson, known as the Bike Seat Sniffer, and notorious for his crude acts in public bathrooms, would write a response to my pleas for company.
Amid these ramblings and sentiments, I realized that I may very well suffer the pangs of loneliness and rejection within these walls should I not act. My children no longer care for me. It is apparent I must fight this fight alone. I declare war on the world. As Pac once said, “It’s just me against the world.” Bring it on you grublets.
Grandpa C
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
My Tears Floweth from Despair and Onions
Dear Diary,
I cried again today. I am lonely. And I thought about my once-praised onion essay.
So Joe told me the other day he didn't understand why Will Ferrell said "I am a human onion" in Blades of Glory. Initially, I dismissed this question because Joe is Baby Chaunce and there are a lot of things he doesn't understand. He's like an emerging fetus, opening his eyes to real world for the first time. But for reasons unbeknownst to me, his question lingered in my mind long after the question was posed, and it is still bothering me to this day. I'd like your input gentlemen. Here's what I've come up with so far.
Will Ferrell (Who we will refer to as Chaz Michael Michaels) means he is actually an onion, but in human form. By this, I don't mean he has discreet human and onion parts, but that he is a human composed of onion like material. Instead of skin cells, he has onion cells. Essentially, his skin is layer upon layer of onion that has the potential to peel. However, because he is a self-sustaining homosapien, he constantly regenerates layers of onion-flesh, so he never peels to the core. I think, however, if he were to have onionskin, all other tissues of his body would have to be derivations of onion tissue as well. Maybe his heart tissue would actually be composed of tomato tissue. . .but of course, it would still have the properties and capabilities of a heart.
Another option is that Chaz's body is divided into discreet onion and human parts. I imagine he'd probably retain the human body, but his head would be an onion. Can you imagine how weird that would be? What if your head was actually an onion? Onions are pretty boring to be honest, but they serve such a diverse spectrum of purposes. A couple issues this might create: First of all, if the entire matter in and of your head was onion, you'd have no brain. Therefore, you'd never know you were an onion-headed human. This probably wouldn't be so bad if you think about it (with your human brain of course), because you'd never know that your life sucked so bad. . .plus you wouldn't be able to smell your own stankiness of a head. The much larger problem that exists in this scenario, however, is the fact that you'd never be aware of when people were trying to cut pieces out of your head for their omelettes and their pasta dishes. Think about that for a second. If you were reknown around the world as the onion-headed human, people would be hunting you down to get some slices of your head. You'd be a manhead-sized source for delicious entrees and romantic dinners. Ultimately what it all boils down to is the fact that you do not have regenerative tissue for your head, and you'd eventually amount to nothing more than a headless human. What would your neck be? A stalk? I imagine it would be hard picking up chicks without a head.
Maybe Chaz means that, metaphorically, he is an onion. His life is nothing more than a stagnant, seemingly lifeless form, sitting in dirt. Eventually he will be used for the greater good, but all he can do is sit there and wait to be ripe for the picking. Then he will be consumed without much of a thanks (because he is only a flavor enhancer), and eventually will be digested and shot back out into the earth where he will be broken down into simple molecular compounds. Essentially what he's saying here is that his life is pathetic and a complete waste of space.
Or the last possibility is that he is a human, but has the most notorious characterstics of an onion (the odiferous ones). Think about puking in a wizard's costume after drinking a bottle of Morgan and presumably eating a plate of seafood ahead of time. Now consider the fact that the evil wizard costume is properties of a disgusting, yet aptly named organization "Grublets on Ice." This name itself suggests the fact that dirty people have worked there before, including the sweaty, hairy, bacteria infested washouts who previously inhabited that costume. The smell of that alone would be enough to make one vomit. Combine that with seafood, a bottle of Morgan, chunky barf, and the fact that Ferrell looks like he hasn't showered in a decade, and I could imagine why he would publicly declare a comparison between his body odor and that of an onion. Excuse me while I remove the bile driblets from my sweater vest.
I cried again today. I am lonely. And I thought about my once-praised onion essay.
So Joe told me the other day he didn't understand why Will Ferrell said "I am a human onion" in Blades of Glory. Initially, I dismissed this question because Joe is Baby Chaunce and there are a lot of things he doesn't understand. He's like an emerging fetus, opening his eyes to real world for the first time. But for reasons unbeknownst to me, his question lingered in my mind long after the question was posed, and it is still bothering me to this day. I'd like your input gentlemen. Here's what I've come up with so far.
Will Ferrell (Who we will refer to as Chaz Michael Michaels) means he is actually an onion, but in human form. By this, I don't mean he has discreet human and onion parts, but that he is a human composed of onion like material. Instead of skin cells, he has onion cells. Essentially, his skin is layer upon layer of onion that has the potential to peel. However, because he is a self-sustaining homosapien, he constantly regenerates layers of onion-flesh, so he never peels to the core. I think, however, if he were to have onionskin, all other tissues of his body would have to be derivations of onion tissue as well. Maybe his heart tissue would actually be composed of tomato tissue. . .but of course, it would still have the properties and capabilities of a heart.
Another option is that Chaz's body is divided into discreet onion and human parts. I imagine he'd probably retain the human body, but his head would be an onion. Can you imagine how weird that would be? What if your head was actually an onion? Onions are pretty boring to be honest, but they serve such a diverse spectrum of purposes. A couple issues this might create: First of all, if the entire matter in and of your head was onion, you'd have no brain. Therefore, you'd never know you were an onion-headed human. This probably wouldn't be so bad if you think about it (with your human brain of course), because you'd never know that your life sucked so bad. . .plus you wouldn't be able to smell your own stankiness of a head. The much larger problem that exists in this scenario, however, is the fact that you'd never be aware of when people were trying to cut pieces out of your head for their omelettes and their pasta dishes. Think about that for a second. If you were reknown around the world as the onion-headed human, people would be hunting you down to get some slices of your head. You'd be a manhead-sized source for delicious entrees and romantic dinners. Ultimately what it all boils down to is the fact that you do not have regenerative tissue for your head, and you'd eventually amount to nothing more than a headless human. What would your neck be? A stalk? I imagine it would be hard picking up chicks without a head.
Maybe Chaz means that, metaphorically, he is an onion. His life is nothing more than a stagnant, seemingly lifeless form, sitting in dirt. Eventually he will be used for the greater good, but all he can do is sit there and wait to be ripe for the picking. Then he will be consumed without much of a thanks (because he is only a flavor enhancer), and eventually will be digested and shot back out into the earth where he will be broken down into simple molecular compounds. Essentially what he's saying here is that his life is pathetic and a complete waste of space.
Or the last possibility is that he is a human, but has the most notorious characterstics of an onion (the odiferous ones). Think about puking in a wizard's costume after drinking a bottle of Morgan and presumably eating a plate of seafood ahead of time. Now consider the fact that the evil wizard costume is properties of a disgusting, yet aptly named organization "Grublets on Ice." This name itself suggests the fact that dirty people have worked there before, including the sweaty, hairy, bacteria infested washouts who previously inhabited that costume. The smell of that alone would be enough to make one vomit. Combine that with seafood, a bottle of Morgan, chunky barf, and the fact that Ferrell looks like he hasn't showered in a decade, and I could imagine why he would publicly declare a comparison between his body odor and that of an onion. Excuse me while I remove the bile driblets from my sweater vest.
My Lonesome Soul Pondering the Existence of Gates
Dear Diary,
I am so alone. I am so alone right now.
So, as you may be aware, there is a little "gate" in the stairwell of the parking ramp here. It's on the main floor in the stairwell that connects to the employee entrance. It's a little swinging gate that blocks off the stairs going down to the underground parking levels, and I think it may have been put there to prevent people from falling? Either way, it's a waste of material and it creates pure havoc for any helpless souls that may cross paths in this unfortunate, castastrophic-prone region. First of all, when you're carrying a massive work bag, a giant squirrel box with food, and any other stuff you "need" for work, it's a complete hassle to have to swing open a gate to go downstairs. For this reason, along with my preference for parking in naturally illuminated areas, I park upstairs. You would think I wouldn't have to deal with the gate then, right? Wrong. It seems like every time I walk down the stairwell to the main floor, someone is always coming up the stairwell from the underground parking, resulting in the most awkward human interaction you've ever seen. I'm not sure if I should stand back and let the person tackle the gate themselves, if I should assist them with the gate, or if I should just say "screw it" and bolt for the lobby to avoid any weirdness. The problem is, I'd prefer to stand back and give them the go-ahead, but most of the time, they'd prefer to wait for me to pass instead! It's a battle of selflessness that culminates into retardedness. I feel like a jerk if I just bolt ahead, but I've realized sometimes I just have to do it. To make matters worse, when the gate opens, it blocks the door that connects to the employee entrance. So you can imagine the gong show that erupts when two people collide in the stairwell AND someone else is trying to get into the stairwell. There you have it; Three grown adults, beating on metal and concrete, grunting at each other in pure confusion, much like a tribe of monkeys. Do monkeys ever form tribes? Whatever.
I am so alone. I am so alone right now.
So, as you may be aware, there is a little "gate" in the stairwell of the parking ramp here. It's on the main floor in the stairwell that connects to the employee entrance. It's a little swinging gate that blocks off the stairs going down to the underground parking levels, and I think it may have been put there to prevent people from falling? Either way, it's a waste of material and it creates pure havoc for any helpless souls that may cross paths in this unfortunate, castastrophic-prone region. First of all, when you're carrying a massive work bag, a giant squirrel box with food, and any other stuff you "need" for work, it's a complete hassle to have to swing open a gate to go downstairs. For this reason, along with my preference for parking in naturally illuminated areas, I park upstairs. You would think I wouldn't have to deal with the gate then, right? Wrong. It seems like every time I walk down the stairwell to the main floor, someone is always coming up the stairwell from the underground parking, resulting in the most awkward human interaction you've ever seen. I'm not sure if I should stand back and let the person tackle the gate themselves, if I should assist them with the gate, or if I should just say "screw it" and bolt for the lobby to avoid any weirdness. The problem is, I'd prefer to stand back and give them the go-ahead, but most of the time, they'd prefer to wait for me to pass instead! It's a battle of selflessness that culminates into retardedness. I feel like a jerk if I just bolt ahead, but I've realized sometimes I just have to do it. To make matters worse, when the gate opens, it blocks the door that connects to the employee entrance. So you can imagine the gong show that erupts when two people collide in the stairwell AND someone else is trying to get into the stairwell. There you have it; Three grown adults, beating on metal and concrete, grunting at each other in pure confusion, much like a tribe of monkeys. Do monkeys ever form tribes? Whatever.
Neglect and Depravity
Dear Diary,
It is, yet again, another dreary day for Grandpa Chaun. It seems as though my family has moved on to much better, more important things in life. Some days, I sit in my rocking chair and stair outside at the drizzle bouncing off the pavement, fogging up the windows.
It isn't easy being grandpappy. This family's neglect of Grandpa C has left me to resort to nostalgic writings of the past. I now leave you with a tear-soaked entry that I once wrote to my beloved Chaunsons during Christmas; it was a lonely holiday for me.
In the spirit of the Christmas season, I thought I'd write a little bit about the obscurity of the concept Christmas trees. What's up with them? Today, we'll be going to get a Christmas tree. But why? When the Christmas season approaches, do humans have some sort of biological ticker that goes off that tells them to go outside, hack down a tree, and shove it through their door? What is it about Christmas that makes us want to take some massive plant and put it in our living room? Why do we feel the need to risk covering our face and hands in sap and pine needles to stand a tree up in front of our window, as if to boast to the world that we killed a living organism that couldn't move, couldn't fight back, or couldn't give us the verbal lashing we deserve when we referred to it as "scrawny," "bare," and "stubby"? Do you think a human would be willing to stand in your living room in a bucket of water for over a month if you told him he was scrawny and stubby?? NO!!! He'd shove a pinecone down your throat for being a pumpbag!
We assume that plants don't have the ability to think, simply because they lack the central nervous system that the animal kingdom has. But how do we know the tree doesn't use it's xylem and phloem to produce thoughts and emotions? If the tree had the physical ability to speak its mind, I'm sure it would tell you straight up what it thinks of you. And if the tree had the physical ability to fight you, I'm sure it would. Have you ever fought a tree? It's not easy. Think about getting into a fight with a telephone pole. A telephone pole that throws pins at you. Doesn't sound like much fun, does it? You could try to shoot it, but the bullets would simply create holes, pissing the tree (and telephone pole) off even more. You'd get slapped in the face left and right. Branches would be coming out of nowhere, puncturing your skin with millions of blood-soaked needles. And once that tree had chopped your sorry, pruny rump to the ground, it'd be standing over you like the giant, coniferous warrior that it is, spewing out comments about how much it wants to jam a ceramic star or angel in the top of your head. It would say "Hey you little grublet. I'm going to find some frumpy, putzy looking ornaments and jab their little hangers into your skin. I'm going to take 12 year old candy canes that have been slobbered on by your dog and hang them from your chubby little fingers. Or how about I wrap you in Christmas lights and shove presents between your legs?" If you don't think a tree would say this to you, think again. It's probably tired of standing next to the wall, watching you make out with your girlfriend, or friend from the bar who happens to be a fighter pilot/musician, on the couch.
Why trees? Why not a Christmas squirrel? Maybe **** has the right idea. **** is taking in two wild squirrels who scamper around the porch of her apartment. Maybe she is defying all Christmas tradition and attempting to reconstruct a different one. And maybe we should all be doing this. When the holidays roll around, why don't we attempt to catch a squirrel and bring him into the house? We could paint him assorted colors and watch the Super Troopers on the big screen in our basement with him. He could put back a couple beers, whip up some protein shakes in the magic bullet, jam on the keys, and engage in typical conversation about farts, poop, work, and Joe's bizarre obsession with A.A. Then, when Christmas came, we could skewer him and serve him with some dumplings on top of a Christmas casserole.
Why doesn't this happen? What do elves, trees, deer with horns, and a fat old man with a red velvet suit have to do with Christmas??? NOTHING! Truthfully, it all sounds like X-Rated movie to me. That being said, we're probably going to get a Christmas tree today. I am a sellout.
I am a human vortex right now. I feel like my energy is centralized and it's pulling everything into the middle of my torso. And my head. All external, physical matter is being stretched into a 5-D form, and it's stemming from my body. But from a bystander's perspective, it looks like it's just sitting there in a squished, stretched blur, kinda like salt water taffy. It would look like a million roots stemming from myself. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I feel like a black hole. Even objects across this building feel my gravitational pull, and will eventually succumb to the power of my being imploding on itself. Eventually I will capture all forms of energy into a massive, dense ball and I will be powerful enough to consume the earth's consistency as well as the universe. Once I've engulfed the universe, I'll simply be a big black blob in white space. I'll look like an inkblot on a piece of printer paper. Whatever beings exist in this dimension will simply think I am a scribble mark to cover up a mistake they made, and they'll throw me away. By this point, I'll be in 12-D and will have encompassed all time grids and spacial modalities. I'll have created my own dimension in which certain matters exist not in the physical sense that we see now, but as what we call figments of imagination. But I am real. I am very real. I am the thought in your head. Because I pulled matter from Medtronic into my core, I eventually became a real, existing entity, which you consider only to be a thought in your head. But I exist. And it's because I took some ritalin and drank some coffee.
It is, yet again, another dreary day for Grandpa Chaun. It seems as though my family has moved on to much better, more important things in life. Some days, I sit in my rocking chair and stair outside at the drizzle bouncing off the pavement, fogging up the windows.
It isn't easy being grandpappy. This family's neglect of Grandpa C has left me to resort to nostalgic writings of the past. I now leave you with a tear-soaked entry that I once wrote to my beloved Chaunsons during Christmas; it was a lonely holiday for me.
In the spirit of the Christmas season, I thought I'd write a little bit about the obscurity of the concept Christmas trees. What's up with them? Today, we'll be going to get a Christmas tree. But why? When the Christmas season approaches, do humans have some sort of biological ticker that goes off that tells them to go outside, hack down a tree, and shove it through their door? What is it about Christmas that makes us want to take some massive plant and put it in our living room? Why do we feel the need to risk covering our face and hands in sap and pine needles to stand a tree up in front of our window, as if to boast to the world that we killed a living organism that couldn't move, couldn't fight back, or couldn't give us the verbal lashing we deserve when we referred to it as "scrawny," "bare," and "stubby"? Do you think a human would be willing to stand in your living room in a bucket of water for over a month if you told him he was scrawny and stubby?? NO!!! He'd shove a pinecone down your throat for being a pumpbag!
We assume that plants don't have the ability to think, simply because they lack the central nervous system that the animal kingdom has. But how do we know the tree doesn't use it's xylem and phloem to produce thoughts and emotions? If the tree had the physical ability to speak its mind, I'm sure it would tell you straight up what it thinks of you. And if the tree had the physical ability to fight you, I'm sure it would. Have you ever fought a tree? It's not easy. Think about getting into a fight with a telephone pole. A telephone pole that throws pins at you. Doesn't sound like much fun, does it? You could try to shoot it, but the bullets would simply create holes, pissing the tree (and telephone pole) off even more. You'd get slapped in the face left and right. Branches would be coming out of nowhere, puncturing your skin with millions of blood-soaked needles. And once that tree had chopped your sorry, pruny rump to the ground, it'd be standing over you like the giant, coniferous warrior that it is, spewing out comments about how much it wants to jam a ceramic star or angel in the top of your head. It would say "Hey you little grublet. I'm going to find some frumpy, putzy looking ornaments and jab their little hangers into your skin. I'm going to take 12 year old candy canes that have been slobbered on by your dog and hang them from your chubby little fingers. Or how about I wrap you in Christmas lights and shove presents between your legs?" If you don't think a tree would say this to you, think again. It's probably tired of standing next to the wall, watching you make out with your girlfriend, or friend from the bar who happens to be a fighter pilot/musician, on the couch.
Why trees? Why not a Christmas squirrel? Maybe **** has the right idea. **** is taking in two wild squirrels who scamper around the porch of her apartment. Maybe she is defying all Christmas tradition and attempting to reconstruct a different one. And maybe we should all be doing this. When the holidays roll around, why don't we attempt to catch a squirrel and bring him into the house? We could paint him assorted colors and watch the Super Troopers on the big screen in our basement with him. He could put back a couple beers, whip up some protein shakes in the magic bullet, jam on the keys, and engage in typical conversation about farts, poop, work, and Joe's bizarre obsession with A.A. Then, when Christmas came, we could skewer him and serve him with some dumplings on top of a Christmas casserole.
Why doesn't this happen? What do elves, trees, deer with horns, and a fat old man with a red velvet suit have to do with Christmas??? NOTHING! Truthfully, it all sounds like X-Rated movie to me. That being said, we're probably going to get a Christmas tree today. I am a sellout.
I am a human vortex right now. I feel like my energy is centralized and it's pulling everything into the middle of my torso. And my head. All external, physical matter is being stretched into a 5-D form, and it's stemming from my body. But from a bystander's perspective, it looks like it's just sitting there in a squished, stretched blur, kinda like salt water taffy. It would look like a million roots stemming from myself. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I feel like a black hole. Even objects across this building feel my gravitational pull, and will eventually succumb to the power of my being imploding on itself. Eventually I will capture all forms of energy into a massive, dense ball and I will be powerful enough to consume the earth's consistency as well as the universe. Once I've engulfed the universe, I'll simply be a big black blob in white space. I'll look like an inkblot on a piece of printer paper. Whatever beings exist in this dimension will simply think I am a scribble mark to cover up a mistake they made, and they'll throw me away. By this point, I'll be in 12-D and will have encompassed all time grids and spacial modalities. I'll have created my own dimension in which certain matters exist not in the physical sense that we see now, but as what we call figments of imagination. But I am real. I am very real. I am the thought in your head. Because I pulled matter from Medtronic into my core, I eventually became a real, existing entity, which you consider only to be a thought in your head. But I exist. And it's because I took some ritalin and drank some coffee.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Welcome to Chaunsonville
Hi. This is a special message from Grandpa Chaunson. (aka Giant C, Humaffe, and Giant Human). I would like to take this time to personally welcome you to Chaunsonville, a special little nook for seagulls and starfish galore. Here, you will find some amazingly profound blogs from my children, grandchildren, and I, loaded with information you never knew you needed to know.
Let's get started, shall we? First, a little look into the life of Grandpa Chaun:
I enjoy Werther's from my candy bowl, located next to my brown, knit recliner.
I wear black socks to my knees, with tennis shoes, when I ride my bike.
My bike has a bell and a basket.
I carry a comb in my pocket for my 3 stray hairs.
I smell like an old basement, and I wear fuzzy, cardigan like sweaters. . .with those massive, fuzzy buttons.
I will sit you on my lap and ask you how school is going. And if you're kind in return, you might get another Werther's.
All of this wonderful information aside, I intend to delight you with many stories, both ancient and anew. Together, we will laugh and cherish the beauty of these stories. Please. . .Come with me now and meet my lovely family:
Let's get started, shall we? First, a little look into the life of Grandpa Chaun:
I enjoy Werther's from my candy bowl, located next to my brown, knit recliner.
I wear black socks to my knees, with tennis shoes, when I ride my bike.
My bike has a bell and a basket.
I carry a comb in my pocket for my 3 stray hairs.
I smell like an old basement, and I wear fuzzy, cardigan like sweaters. . .with those massive, fuzzy buttons.
I will sit you on my lap and ask you how school is going. And if you're kind in return, you might get another Werther's.
All of this wonderful information aside, I intend to delight you with many stories, both ancient and anew. Together, we will laugh and cherish the beauty of these stories. Please. . .Come with me now and meet my lovely family:
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
