Some day, I want to invite Keanu Reeves over for dinner. I will serve soup, and furnish him with nothing but a fork to eat it with. Then, when he asks for a more appropriate utensil with which to dine, I shall reply, “There is no spoon.” And collapse into paroxysms of laughter. Then he’ll probably kung fu punch me or something, because, you know, he’s the chosen one.
I hate those books with nothing in them but sadistic questions, like “Would you rather get set on fire, or fed to a puma?” or, “Would you switch to the metric system if it meant finding a cure for cancer?” I’ve already got enough decisions to make without stupid hypothetical ones too. So I want to do a book of easy questions, like, “Would you eat a delicious roast beef sandwich in order to save a kitten?” or, “Would you rather take a nap or get punched in the face by Mr. T?”
When you ask people what the one book is that they’d take along with them were they to be stranded on a desert island, most of them say things like, The Bible, or Lord of the Rings, or TV Guide. But that’s ridiculous; because the book you ought to choose is something like, Myron G. Smackleton’s Compleat Guide to Raft-Building and Navigation for the Novice. Then when you get back home despite losing your volleyball and most of your sanity, you can catch back up on the great works of Western Civilization.
If I was writing a book on crazy facts and stuff about the language of the elves, I think I’d call it, “Quenya Believe It?”
While we were down at the beach, Amy, who hath excellent taste in such matters, got me a P.G. Wodehouse book, which, by the way, is thus far an excellent read. The thing is, she wrote a little “I hope you enjoy this as much as I did” dedication to me on the front page. The only book I’ve gotten her yet though, is “At The Mountains of Madness” which is a bit more of a horror story than P.G. Wodehouse. How do you dedicate a horror novel to someone anyway? “I sincerely hope none of the stuff in here ever happens to you. Toodles, Ben.” It just doesn’t work, even if you dot the I’s with little hearts.
You know how when they do a stage special for a comedian or other such personage of professional amusement, they always have the camera follow him all the way out from the green room to the stage, which invariably takes, like, just long enough to do all the credits. Well, what if Billy from Family Circus ever did one of those? It’d take like, the entire show just to get him out on stage, because he’d be all climbing under Old Man Weaselton’s lawn mower and through electrical conduits and across the cooling pond at the treatment plant.
Speaking of which, I bet if you took that kid and just put him somewhere where he had to go in a straight line, like at the bottom of the
In the gift shop at work, we sell rabbits’ feet. The problem with this is that every single person who comes in and sees them makes the infinitely witty remark, “I guess they didn’t bring much luck to the rabbit!” I swear, when I rule the world and the Culling of the Tards begins, they shall be the first to go.
Also, people who dress their babies up like fruit. Seriously, someday future generations are gonna look back on that like we do on slavery and the Partridge Family, and future historians will have to convince people that times were different back then and we didn’t know any better.
I want to take a math class, and then when we get some homework with a lot of division in it, I’m not even gonna touch it. Then the next day when my professor sees it, he’ll ask me, “Ben, where is your division?” Then, I’ll finally get to fulfill my dream of quoting General Pickett in the classroom and reply, “Suh, I have no division.” Then I’ll be expelled, but it’ll be worth it.
Isn’t it convenient how all the artificial sweeteners in the world just happen to come in different colors? How serendipitous that Sweet N’ Low, NutraSweet, Splenda, and Generic Cancer-Inducing Petrochemical Derived Beverage Additive all just naturally decided not to get up in each others’ respective grills by fighting over say, pink. I however, want to throw a metaphorical monkey wrench into this happy little arrangement by coming up with a new sweetener and making the packages in randomly selected primary pastels, thus throwing the world into total chaos.
