Why look, gentle reader! Pages 20-35 of The Big Book of Cryptic Posts.
“So a few clouds are okay, but an overcast sky is bad. Why is that?”
“I don’t know. Something to do with receptors in our skin, perhaps?”
“Explain, please.”
“I won’t. Don’t feel like it. All I can say is that I’m no goddamn ray of sunshine–“
“–Ever?”
“Today. Less so today.”
“Ah. And what about the word ‘cumulative’? What are your thoughts on that?”
“I don’t like it. It’s sad. All the little things adding up, you know?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. But it might be commutative as well.”
“Commutative?”
“Yeah, the commutative property. Remember math?”
“Never one of my strong subjects.”
“Come on, reach back into your memory banks.”
“Nope, no dice.”
“You’re not trying.”
“Okay, how about this? I want to stop caring about the commutative property. I don’t even feel like talking about the associative property tonight.”
“That’s too bad. Pretty arrogant of you, huh?”
“Next question.”
“Greatest fear?”
“Anonymity. And losing my mind.”
“But you don’t want to be famous either, do you?”
“No.”
“And love? What’s that to you?”
“I don’t really remember.”
“Try me; we’ve got all the time in the world.”
“Truth be told, I’m not so sure anymore. Lists are frowned upon, you know?”
“Fine. Freethink, for all I care.”
“I’m not sure how to begin.”
“Let’s get coarse. Are you a leg guy?”
“Legs certainly wouldn’t hurt.”
“That’s not what I meant, moron. So you’re, ah, a bit more invested in the torso region, eh?”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Look, I’m more of an eye person.”
“Oh, please. That’s so played.”
“Well, let me explain. She can’t have that glazed look in her eyes. She’s got to be sharp. Because looks? They won’t last too long.”
“Oh, you’re talking long-term now. That’s a doozy. Well, couldn’t you just enjoy her looks while she has them?”
“Okay, you got me. She’s got to be not-ugly.”
“Wow, that’s specific.”
“I mean, cute is fine, but I want smarts. She’s got to think, got to write, got to know what’s proper and when to be the exact opposite.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere…”
“She’s got to be warm-hearted, severe when she has to be, and–“
“–Sensitive?”
“Yeah, that’d be nice as well.”
“Bottom-line this for me.”
“I need to find a puzzle.”
“Good luck.”
“Good night.”
On the tech news front, gentle reader, I woke to the sound of my possessed DVD drive opening and closing itself today without any provocation. Is this the end of a two-year life well spent or the beginning of an unholy existence? Only time will tell, unfortunately, and Evanston is fresh out of priests.
Also on the tech news front: Mr. 80.142.45.128 attempted to hack into my computer today. Let me ask you something, you dumb script kiddie. Did you really think I’d store my website in my Windows folder? Here’s my credit card number, by the way: 1234 5678 8765 4321. Why on earth did I get a perfectly symmetrical number? I got it for your sake, daft hacker from Amsterdam, so you’ll have an easier time remembering it. You see, when you wake up tomorrow morning, you’ll only have eight fingers left. In case I’ve lost you already, I’ll spell it out for you: simply count up to eight, then back down, and you’ll be able to buy anything online! And oh, before I forget, the expiration date is–surprise, surprise!–the same day that you’re expiring.
If you’re wondering, gentle reader, whether these two news items are related somehow, let me assure you that they aren’t. The first item is simply the consequence of a freak firmware accident finally catching up to me. By the way, I’ve also been using the same computer since junior year of high school. Additionally, if you’re shopping for computer parts, try to stay away from anything marketed as “Hi-Val.” And as for the second news item, stay the f*ck away from my site, Holland Boy, lest my East-Sidaz go raw on your sorry little ass.
In posts past, I shared with you my great love for dialogue and the public square. While engaging in my daily online stalking today, I happened upon CEO Waiken’s just-published theory on why things disappear. I say elves, he says imps (June 02, 2003 for posterity).
“Does this even matter?” you rudely ask me.
You may think, gentle reader, that this is a “potato, potatoe” issue or–heaven forbid–that this is a non-issue, but I’d like to disabuse you of your stupidity. What you witness here is discourse on one of the most significant issues of our time.
He apologizes for the soap drought, as it were, and that’s fine. I firmly believe that every CEO needs to take the occasional vacation. What I must respectfully disagree with and direct your attention toward, however, is his imp theory.
You will note that “imps” stole his Nalgene bottle, but I ask you: what kind of respectable, cloven-footed demon spawn would steal such an artifact? It’s not as if they need water to quench their unquenchable hellfire. Nay, quite the opposite–they would touch said bottle and it would vaporize in an instant. Similarly, CEO Waiken’s savings account register would burst into component atoms upon contact with Netherworld skin. And by the River Styx, why the holy hell would imps indulge in petty theft when other, more convenient sins are readily available? Pure bunkum, I say.
How am I sure of my own theory? Research, dear reader, research. Experts at Secondhand Rants have collected reams of data in the hopes of making our genocide more targeted and efficient. It goes without saying that all signs point toward elves.
Why am I so crotchety and mean, you ask? Simple. Among other things, I founded this media conglomerate on a set of family values: namely, comedic violence and evil. And I intend to hold fast, hold fast like a piranha on Beefalo, to my beliefs.
In the event that he posts a reply to this, I will remain mum on the subject per debate protocol. I have spoken my mind, understand, and if he tries to persuade you of otherwise, make sure to close your ears and hum very loudly.