I read an article in the paper the other day about how pirates had attacked some French ship and made off with a vast assortment of cheeses and unjustified snootiness, which is funny enough all by itself, but the best part was when they were interviewing some French minister of pirate relations who said, and thus I quote, “We reckon it was pirates.”

 

            I’m really tired of restaurants that just throw a bunch of old junk on the walls and act like it somehow constitutes a coherent interior eatery decorational paradigm.  In an effort to be different, therefore, and needlessly rock the boat, I want to build a restaurant where I travel many years into the future and bring back a bunch of future junk, which I will then use to adorn my festive little bistro.  Then, many years alter when the future actually gets here and my restaurant is no longer  a window into the world of tomorrow, I’ll just sell it to Applebee’s and start a new one next door with an assortment of fresh geegaws of the 22nd century.

 

            I wish I had an identical twin, because then I wouldn’t tell anyone about him, and I’d go and be all like, talking to some friends and stuff, and I’d conclude with some witty epigram or pithy observation and then walk off.  Then, my identical twin would come running up from a completely different direction wearing like, a plastic suit and some goggles and be all like, “Have any of you seen Ben?  I have to tell him about something absolutely horrible stuff that he needs to avert in the future!”

 

            In a similar vein, up along Route 33, there’s a place called Twin Cedars Farm.  Every time I drove by it, I want to build a time machine, go back thirty years and run over one of them, the return to the present and see whether it’s called Lone Cedar Farm.  Unless of course they were really only metaphorical cedars to begin with, which would be totally lame, because if you can’t even grow any literal cedars, you’ve got no business calling yourself a farm.

 

            If you’re taking a girl out to a movie on your first date and are endeavoring to select an appropriate mix of songs for the occasion, you probably ought not include Maxwell’s Silver Hammer, lest she think it portentous of things to come.  And by “things to come” I mean going on a wacky musical rampage of slaughter.  Unless of course she’s an emo.  Far from fearing death, they actually love it.  Death is their tapioca.

 

            National Geographic did a cover story on Africa, with the tagline, “Whatever you thought, think again.”  Which probably works great if you happen to believe ridiculous things about Africa, like that they produce over 78% of the world’s tartar sauce there, or that lions are in fact merely composed of a crunchy liony shell and filled with marshmallowy goodness, or other such silly and probably untrue notions of which you ought be disabused.  But what about those of us whose thoughts concerning Africa are instead remarkable only because of their generally insightful nature?  For us, National Geographic implies that we have only been lying to ourselves.  So, you thought that the Pyramids are in fact not the discotheques of the gods?  And you were positive that “Kenya” was by no means an anagram for “Delicious Hummingbird Spectacles”?  Well think again, foo!  Sorry National Geographic, this means war.

 

            You know how old guys always buy Crown Victorias and paint them white with a bunch of antennae and stuff in an attempt to make everyone think they’re cops and thusly create unnecessary traffic snarls (as opposed, one can only imagine, to all those absolutely indispensable traffic snarls which further the welfare of all mankind)?  I hate those guys with a passion that I usually reserve for Ben Affleck and Hitler, so I have hatched an ingenious plan to look silly.  I want to buy a Crown Victoria and instead paint it like, fifty different wacky non-authoritarian colors so that I’m like, the Technicolor Dream Cop or something, and only hippies and the tragically colorblind will be put in fear of my coppitude.

 

            Weddings, as a general rule, are happy occasions, but the invitations to them are almost invariably lame and boring, “Myron and Tabitha cordially invite you to attend blobbity blobbity blah…”  Instead, I think wedding invitations ought to be more along the lines of monster truck rally advertisements, “See Ysythrog jump over 7 flaming school buses!  Watch as Brianrietta battles Truckasaurus!  First three hundred guest get a giant foam novelty hand!  Remember, you pay for the whole seat, but you’ll only use – The Edge!”  I think marriages would probably last longer.