I am the very Model of the Modern Major General - BY GILBERT AND SULLIVAN

I am the very model of the modern major general. 

I've information vegetable animal and mineral. 

I know the king of England and I quote the fights historical

From Marathon to Waterloo in order categorical. 

I'm very well acquainted too with matters mathematical

I understand equations both the simple and quadratical. 

About binomial theorem I am teeming with a lot of news,

With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse. 

I'm very good at integral and differential calculus,

I know the scientific names of beings animalculous.

In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,

I am the very model of the modern major general. 

I liked this poem because it is unique, and it brings back memories of my childhood (I learned this poem as a child). 

My First Day At School II - Lost In New York

1) My first day at school, I was trembling with fear throughout the day. I wore a turquoise sweater because I didn't have another one, and it was really cold. 

2) His first day at school, he was shaking with excitement. He was so confident, so happy to be there. He wore a turquoise sweater because he wanted to stand out from the crowd.

3) I don't really remember my first day at school, because I am an adult, and I have forgetful tendencies.

It Ain't Easy Bein' A Skunk

I am not black, I am not white, but I am black and white. And no, this is not the riddle that J.R.R. Tolkien decided to leave out of "The Hobbit". I am, simply, a skunk. 

It's actually kind of annoying to be a skunk. The black animals don't accept me. The white animals don't either. Actually, while we're at it, none of the other animals accept me. I could pull the color card and blame it on not being completely black or completely white, but we all know that's false. The zebra is living proof of that. No, the real reason no one likes me is because I smell like feces.

It's really not my fault. Jesus' dad gave me the terrible smell as a defense mechanism. I'm not getting angry with Papa Christ, but I just feel so excluded from all the other animals. I mean, no one even wants to eat me. My life is incredibly boring. Whenever I approach another animal, or a human being, they always run away as if I'm gonna kill them. Really, I just wanted some companionship. I just wanted to have a conversation. But before I can get in one word, they're completely gone. My kind is barely better. They are all so self-conscious about smelling bad that they overcompensate by loudly calling out all the other skunks for how bad they smell. At the end of the day, I am all alone. I am stuck in the middle, but without you. I am the hamburger without the buns, I am the pepperoni, just chilling in the corner, without any pizza it can lie on top of. I just wish I was gray. I just wish I didn't have to be black and white at the same time. If I was gray they would except me. If I was gray... My life would be so much better. Maybe I'll just start using Old Spice. 

[NO TITLE]

Tina Fey,

Has no shades of gray. 

The Fiddler Fell Off The Roof, and Died.

As Demetri Martin once said, "A musical is like a burlap sack. I would not want to be in either." Since I have fortunately not been in a burlap sack, I will only be able to offer my reflections on the former.

The year was 2004. Or 2005. I don't remember. I do remember that I was in 8th grade. Our class had chosen Fiddler On The Roof as our class play that year. I'm not gonna lie, I liked the play alot. It was a touching, heartfelt, humorous, sad and inspiring tale of love and tradition, of struggle and hardship, and of many other things that can be learned through googling "Fiddler On The Roof - Plot summary". Oh, and the music for the play was great. 

I got a singing part that year. I was so proud of myself, and so motivated to do well. But then I realized something. I was in 8th grade. My voice had not changed. I spent many a night crying myself to sleep (figuratively of course) just re-enacting the manly baritones of my male classmates in my head. I ended up making our pianist - an eccentric fellow named Alan Dynan who played brilliantly but mumbled while he played - play my song in an obscure key that should not exist on the piano. I would have felt bad, but I didn't. I did what I had to do. I had to make my song as low as I could possibly sing it. I had to salvage what was left of my 8th grade manhood. 

Apart from some uncoordinated dance steps and several extremely ill-timed sneezes, the play went very well. As Borat might say, it was a "GREAT SUCCESS!" But what I will always remember about that experience is my high voice ringing out alone, as I myself  dreamt about being trapped in a burlap sack. 

Once Upon a Time in A Land Far Far Away... But not THE land Far Far Away... This isn't Shrek. It's something else...

Once upon a time in a land far far away there lived two hobbits with large hairy toes. But these hobbits were far away from there home. Dirt sprayed in all directions as they trudged through the deserted forest. The hobbits, named Frito and Spam, were on a mission to find Kanye West's lost bling. 

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

Frito flung his giant cloak in front of the both of them. "There. Now no one can see us!"

"You idiot!" Spam hissed. "That's only in Harry Potter!" 

Frito cursed loudly. "Over there! Quick!"

They leapt quickly and dashed behind a fat tree trunk. All of a sudden, an obese pine cone hit Spam on the top of his head. Along strand of golden hair dangled from its spikes. 

"Oh my GOD!" Cried Spam. 

"Nothing, nevermind." Said Spam.

"Oh. Ok." Said God dejectedly, and he went back to answering all his prayers. 

"Are you guys trying to hide from me?" Said the damsel from up high in the tree. She looked young and orphan-like, almost as if she was lost in the forest.

Frito and Spam leapt up like Willy, in Free Willy. 

"Um... No. Not at all. We were just... um... scared." Frito stuttered. 

"Nice cover-up!" whispered Spam in his ear. 

"Hey are we animals?" Frito asked.

"Um, yeah... Why?"

"I was just wondering if we counted as talking animals. Cause we're supposed to include talking animals in this story."

"Oh. I think so. I guess Ms. Cassell will have to decide."

"Yeah I guess -"

"Jesus Christ shut UP!" Said the beaver from behind them.

"Excuse me? What did you just say to me?" Said Jesus.

"No, I was talking to them." The beaver hurriedly replied. 

"It definitely sounded like you were talking directly to me!" Said Jesus. 

"Ok. Ok. I'm sorry." The beaver muttered. "I should really look into that buddhism thing." And he skulked away. 

"Are either of you hunters?" The damsel asked. As she and her long golden hair descended from the tree.

"No." Said Spam. "But I think she is." He pointed to a  witch-like, elderly woman with a dead deer slung over her shoulder, and a broomstick in her other hand. 

"Nice to meet you." Said the damsel. 

"Do you happen to heave red-ruby slippers?" The witch/hunter/old woman asked. 

"No." Said the damsel. The witch raised her bow. "But I do have water!" And the damsel raised her SuperSoaker5kg3000SniperPlatinumEdition squirtgun, with a dual suspension water hose, available for only 2 payments of $9.95, plus shipping and handling, which reminded her that those lucky bamboos she had ordered yesterday as a last resort christmas present for her mother-in-law had still not arrived yet, even though she had ordered it in rush delivery, and fired. 

"I'm MELTING!" Screamed the witch/hunter/old woman,, as she sank to the ground and died. 

"Wow." Said Spam.

"I know." Said Frito, "We didn't help her out at ALL. That distressed damsel did it all by herself!"

"Mom? Dad? I thought you guys were dead!" The damsel said incredulously.

"Honey, we're so proud of you, but we can only stay a few minutes, kind of like Lilly and James in Harry Potter. We're still dead as a doornail." 

"Oh." Said the damsel. She disappeared into the woods. 

And Frito and Spam lived happily ever after.

The moral of this story is: When you don't have enough time to write a story, the ending is rushed and anti-climactic, and Kanye West's bling will never ever be found. 

Gods of Small and Insignificant Conversations

Oteka Showa, Goddess of Personal Hygiene, walked up to 10-4, the God of Plagiarism. 

"You smell terrible. Go take a shower."

"You smell terrible. Go take a shower." 10-4 replied. 

"Oh great. THIS game again." Oteka Showa rolled her eyes.

"Oh great. THIS game again." 10-4 giggled in a manly way. 

"You are so ANNOYING." Oteka Showa was ready to slap him.

"You are so ANNOYING." 10-4 was enjoying this.

Suddenly Oteka Showa had a great idea. "I am an immature little girl." She smiled to herself. 

"I am an imma-HEY WAIT A MINUTE! I see what your doing!"

"HA. I win. You smell bad!" and Oteka Showa walked away victorious. 

10-4 had sex, then died. 

The Black Cat and The Chamber of Secrets

"For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen I neither expect nor solicit belief."

"Wait HOLD on a second Grandpa, I thought you were gonna read me the Princess Bride again!"

"Again? Scooter, I've read you that story every night for the past FIVE WEEKS. It's getting really old. Like, it was cute the first couple times maybe, but I think it's time to move on. I mean, Andre the Giant isn't even alive any more!"

"He's NOT?" Scooter's eyes began to tear up, almost as if he was watching Mufasa fall down the cliff. "W-what happened to him?"

"Nothing happened to him. I was just kidding." He sighed. "He'll find out later that Andre the Giant actually WAS dead..." He muttered under his breath.

"Well Grandpa, why can't you read it again? I don't want to hear about a black cat! I don't even believe in superstitions and all that stuff. I saw Freaky Friday the other day, and it was terrible!"

"Hold ON! Did you just compare Edgar Allen Poe to a movie with Lindsey LOHAN in it? I mean, Mean Girls was kind of awesome, but that was literally her only good movie!" Images of Herbie: Fully Loaded flashed through his head. He supressed the sudden urge to vomit violently.

"No Grandpa, I'm just saying I don't like this with black cats and stuff in them."

"Have you ever read Edgar Allen Poe before?" His Grandpa was becoming increasingly annoyed.

"No but-"

"There! How can you know you don't like it if you've never even tried reading it?"

"It's the same thing with you and facebook!" Scooter cried out.

"What? That's totally different. Facebook destroys lives!"

"Have you ever tried it?"

"No but-"

"There! How do you know it destroys lives if you've never tried it?"

"That's totally different. Facebo-"

"No it's not! It's the exact same thing. I win!"

"Wow! You are really ANNOYING!" His Grandpa glared down at him. "I'm not reading you any more stories at all! Good luck entertaining yourself. You know, since you can't even READ." Even in his current mental state, he realized that the last insult had been kind of harsh.

Scooter fought valiantly against his urge to cry... but he lost. After a few minutes of awkward sniffling, and complete lack of eye contact between Grandpa and Grandson, he stopped and wiped his eyes.
"I'm sorry Scooter." His Grandpa sighed. "It's not you it's... it's... You know what? I'm DONE pampering. It IS you. You are so DEMANDING! You're just an ungrateful, spoiled little boy. Good luck paying for my social security benefits!" And with a mad cackle he skipped out of the room, leaving Scooter hurt and confused, still lying in his bed.
Outside, the sharp chattering of crickets drowned out the Grandpa's screams as Karma choked his last breath from his body.
The boy turned to Karma. "Why'd you have to kill him?" He asked.
"Well, the only characters in this story were you and your Grandpa, so I thought it would be best not to make the story about sex dot dot dot..." his voice trailed off.

A Cry For Help II, The Cradle of Life

"Poems always about sex and always about death."

That statement had just escaped her breath. 

"No way!" he exclaimed, "that can't be true!"

"Would you like me to demonstrate it for you?"

"Sallie calm down!" as she raised the gun to his face.

"Can't we all get along in this human race?"

"Sex and Death" she said once more,

While she violently threw him onto the floor. 

With a thunderous crack the bullet hit his chest.

But the poem had only half fit in with the rest. 

Though you may thin this is a disturbing text,

You don't even want to know what happens next. 

My Two Cents About The LitMag...

After reading through last years LitMag, I felt like I was traveling through a surreal world of fantastic literature, a land of organized chaos, a place where the visual art complimented the literary work, where the layouts really added to the work rather than took away from it. I liked the size of the pages, I liked how the them was divided into 4 different sections, and I liked how most of the pages were unique. Though the front and back pages were a little... ugly... I thought that overall it was a beautiful manifestation of artistic creations. 

The 2004 literary magazine also contained marvelous literary work, but it lacked the aesthetic appeal of the one from last year. The pages were too big, which led to way too much blank space. The layouts were rudimentary and simplistic, and didn't do much to enhance the actual content of the magazine. I also felt like the binding of the book was uncreative and slightly messy. 

For our LitMag this year, I think we should learn from that of last year, and make sure that above all, the layouts and artwork enhance and add to the literature. 

 

It's a Bird, It's a Plane, It's... Got a Problem.

I believe I can fly.

I believe I can touch the sky.  

I know that I can fly so high. 

I am Superman. 

I am also an unhappy adolescent. 

I am on anti-depressants. 

I just HATE the smell of Herbal Essence. 

I am Superman. 

Sure I have a bright blue cape. 

But it's got so many holes, it's mostly made of tape. 

The other day I got hit in the head with a grape. 

I am Superman. 

Superman chases down the bad guys,

Superman eats lots of homemade pies. 

Superman gets the girls with the pretty eyes. 

Except for me. Because I am Superman.... with a problem. 

I first learned about it when I was Fifteen. 

While with this one girl named Maureen. 

And at the risk of sounding slightly obscene. 

I am Superman... with a problem. 

I took the Viagra before I got into the shower. 

They said to call the doctor if it lasted four hours. 

After a month it went limp, but I still had my flower.

I am Superman... with a problem. 

They told because I was so super,

Viagra did way TOO much for my little trooper. 

They said I just had to learn to live with my mini-cooper. 

I am Superman... with a problem. 

So I guess I'll have to go on saving the earth. 

And hope my wife can have a virgin birth. 

I pray that life can give me some mirth.

Because I will always be Superman... with a problem. 

That Guy Across The Street

Intently he stares at his prize, his precious. 

Every day he brings it to work without fail, 

Through rain or shine, through gas crisis and road work. 

Now he admires his beauty, he stares in silence.

So much depends upon the red pick-up truck,

in the sunshine,

beside the white road signs. 

At the end of the day,

No wife, no children,

Just him and his truck, 

Content. 

Return of the Jedi II: Now They Just Won't Leave

Supreme Jedi Master. That's right, that's what I am. 

It sounds really cool. But it's not. It actually kind of... sucks. 

All day, all night, all my time spent fighting with lords. 

They all think they are SO cool, but in the end, they are just,

a huge waste of my valuable time. 

But they are not even close to the worst part of my job.

I'd fight with a sith ANY day over meeting with 

the STUPID JEDI COUNCIL.

I mean, since Yoda died, there has been no interesting conversation.

AT ALL.

We used to spend half the meetings trying to UNDERSTAND 

what Yoda was saying, and then the other half, we'd argue about it. 

But now that I took his job, it is unbearably boring. 

I just get so ANNOYED. Not even just cause it's boring, but because,

the Jedi's are so dis-orginized! My ex-wife had OCD. 

Our house was always neat and clean. When she left to go off with

that JERK Hans Solo, she left ME with OCD.

Now every council meeting, I watch in unbearable silence as the Jedi's,

re-arrange chairs, drool on the carpet, spill food on the floor, and of course,

always leave their braid's slightly to the LEFT. I can barely take it anymore.

But, I guess protecting the galaxy was never supposed to be easy. 

Hey Jude - The Beatles

Hey Jude, don't make it bad,

Take a sad song, and make it better.

Remember to let her into your heart. 

Then you can start, to make it better.

Hey Jude, don't be afraid,

You were made to go out and get her.

The minute you let her under your skin,

Then you begin, to make it better.

And any time you feel the pain, Hey Jude, refrain,

Don't carry the world upon your shoulders.

For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool

By making his world a little colder.

Na na na na na

Na na na na.

Hey Jude, don't let me down

You have found her, now go and get her. 

Remember to let her into your heart. 

Then you can start, to make it better. 

So let it out and let it in,

Hey Jude, begin

You're waiting for someone to perform with. 

And don't you know that it's just you,

Hey Jude, you'll do.

The movement you need, is on your shoulder. 

Na na na na na

Na na na na yeah.

Hey Jude, don't make it bad

Take a sad song and make it better.

Remember to let her under your skin.

Then you begin to make it better

Better, better, better, better, better, yeah, yeah, yeah. 

Na na na na na na na

Na na na na Hey Jude. 

This poem, written in song lyrics, has a powerful meaning to me. It deals with making the best of a bad situation, and with overcoming the struggles of life to ultimately rise above, and "make it better." And it is of course, an awesome musical song. 

15 Minutes Can Save You 15% Or More On Car Insurance Haiku

The autumn leaves crack

beneath - the graceful steps of

the Geico Gecko. 

Morgan Freeman and the Chamber of Secrets

MichaelPhelps

Orchestrated 

Rambunctious 

Gatherings

After

Naked

French

Runners

Elatedly

Evacuate

Madagascar 

And 

Nicaragua

An Inconvenient Truth:

BUSH

Do YOU Remember

I remember,

That December,

When you walked into my life... 

Via my shower. 

I gave a scream, 

But then it seemed,

You were such a little harmless chipmunk...

In the shower.

You were so slim, 

You couldn't swim,

And I had really taken a bath...

Instead of a shower.

I ceased to shout,

I climbed on out, 

And left you alone... 

In the shower.

The List Poem: Its a list... AND a poem. At the SAME TIME!!!

The Falcons, the Panthers, Fantasy Football doesn't care! Neither does Sallie, or Sallie, or Hannah Montana. Morgan Freeman is to Alain Bernard as sleep is to quiet time. When I interview the elderly, they tell me of spoons, and sauteed peppers. I hate being marinated at Fantasy Football. I love juice. And by juice, I mean Juicy. 

Fame: Terrible? Or THE MOST terrible?

"Why'd you do it?" Ron asked.
"Do what?" said Harry in his charming British accent.
"You know what." Ron glared at him.
"No, Ron I don-"
"Why'd you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?" Ron angrily cut him off.
"I didn't. I swear. I don't WANT that. I don't WANT to be famous! Said Harry vehemently.
That famous scene, taken from the 4th installment of the Harry Potter series, truly captures how famous people truly feel about fame: It sucks. Fame is not all its cracked up to be. People imagine that if you're famous and everyone knows who you are, you will be happy. In reality, it is exactly the opposite. The more famous you are, the more unhappy you are. Unless your name is Barack Obama, but we won't go there.
Fame is terrible. It drives people to do terrible things. Although this was never proven, it was said that Anna Nicole Smith's last words were "I just can't TAKE this fame anymore!" It WAS completely proven that Owen Wilson was REALLY DEPRESSED, and was rumored to have tried to kill himself. Although there are a few famous people (see: Barack Obama, George Clooney, Others) who handle their social status with grace, the reality is, that for every Clooney, or Morgan Freeman, there are 10 Janet Jacksons.
Being famous is simply not good. Ask Eliot Spitzer. He'll tell you in a heartbeat. being famous eliminates that overlooked, under-appreciated, and absolutely necessary right of privacy.
Fame drove Winona Ryder to shoplift, even though she was insanely rich. Fame also caught her red-handed. Fame impregnated Jamie-Lynn Spears. Fame made Paris Hilton make a sextape. Fame makes the Hot 'n Tots so hot, Fame puts the "Ape" in "Apricot"! ...uh...yeah...
Fame does not bring happiness, it destroys it. Don't be fooled by the fake, plastic smiles of the red-carpet studs on your television screen. They are only hiding the emptiness of their soul. An emptiness caused, of course, by fame.

Underneath the rubble, a golden key lay dot dot dot...

"Underneath the rubble, a golden key lay."
"No No NO! That's TERRIBLE! That's PATHETIC! 'A golden key lay' what is this 1950? Do you see Katherine Hepburn anywhere? I didn't think so! This is 2008! Movie audiences are dumber than ever! All they want are some big explosions, some heartwarming moments, and maybe some cheesy romances. And of course Heath Ledger in makeup... But that's not the point. The point is, you're supposed to be writing a script for a movie in 2008, and you're trying to give me 'a golden key lay'? Is that even a sentence? Jesus Jenny I thought you were supposed to have potential. They told me you had potential. You're lucky I'm not one of those asshole, egotistical movie producers or your ass would be FIRED! You know what? Go take a break. Take all the time you need. Take even 5 MINUTES if you have to. Then start over. Just write me something that doesn't SUCK!"
I could tell he was enjoying himself. He loved power.
"Nice job Dick. Sandy walked up to him. She had witnessed the entire spectacal.
"WHAT did you just say?" he fumed.
"I said nice job RICHARD, you made her cry. Now her eye-liner is all messed up and she'll come back looking like the ghost of Christmas-Yet-To-Come!"
"The ghost of WHAT?"
"It's from 'A Prayer For Owen Meany'. A wonderful book by John Irving about a little boy and his friendship with... another little boy. I'm only halfway through it, but I'm loving it. But that's not the point, the point is if you keep scaring off all your writers you'll never get the script to Morgan Freeman's Voice in time!"
"Yeah... you're probably right." He sighed. "Did you HEAR the crap she was reading to me though? I mean, 'a golden key lay', like it was Shakespeare or something. I would be downright embarrassed showing that to Morgan Freeman!"
"Give her a break Dick, she's trying really hard."
"WHAT did y-"
"Sorry give her a break RICHARD, she's trying really hard."
"Maybe that's her problem. She's trying too hard. I mean, it's Morgan Freeman! All he has to say is 'Hi, I'm Morgan Freeman' and the audience melts before HEY WAIT A MINUTE THAT'S A GREAT IDEA!" He walked off with those words echoeing in his head, and the plot of the movie formulating itself in his mind.
Sandy rolled her eyes and walked off in the opposite direction.
Two days later, Jenny emerged from her hiding spot, with a brilliant script in her hand. It was a heartwarming tale of a man who becomes God for a week thinking he can do God's job better than God. He later finds out that he in fact would do a terrible job, and God was actually way better than him all along.
"Hello?" She called out. "Hello? Anybody there?"
"Hello." A voice said from behind her.
"Who is it?" She said cautiously.
"I am Morgan Freeman."
"CUT!" Dick's voice rang out. That was PERFECT Mr. Freeman! PERFECT! And Jenny, you're a natural! When did you learn to act like that? You can get up now the scenes over. Jenny, you can get up! Jenny?"
"But Jenny did not reply, or even hear him, for upon the instant that she heard Morgan Freeman speak to her, she had fainted.

The Day I Talked to God and HE TALKED TO ME BACK!

Through her connections with famous Hollywood directors, Sallie had been able to hook me up with an interview I knew I would never forget. He met the qualifications required for the interview project... in that he was old. And that I didn't know him personally beforehand. I had called earlier to set up the interview. I had talked to his secretary - he himself was much too busy to be answering phones. I drove to one of his mansions, convenienly located in Decatur, GA. The door to the parking garage opened as I drove up to it, almost as if it knew I was coming.
"It's almost as if the garage door knew I was coming," I thought to myself.
I got out of my car and walked into the lobby.
"M-mister Freeman will s-see you now," the secretary stuttered at me. Then she burped. Then she blushed, because she had burped in public. Than she burped again. I turned in the direction she had pointed me. There were stairs that led upwards. A sign pointed me to "God's room". I was intimidated adn excited at the same time, to be interviewing God. I kept walking.
"S-sorry." A man had staggered past me on his way downstairs, and nearly knocked me over.
"It's fine." I muttered, and kept walking. I passed a women sitting down against the stairwell, holding her head. I was astounded. God's workers were all drunk! "Oh my GOD, his workers are all inebriated!" I thought to myself.
I reached the top of the stairwell. I knew this was it. Armed with my Ipod and Camisia's recording device, I opened the door, and walked inside. There he was, sitting at his desk. God. he looked up at me and smiled.
"Hello."
It struck me with the force of a monstrous wave. My knees felt weak. My vision was blurred. I sat down in the chair across from him. I was determined to make this interview awesome, so Sallie's senior project wouldn't suck.
"What is your name?" I asked, even though I already knew it, even though the world already knew it.
"I am Morgan Freeman." I fainted.
Weeks later, when I was working at his office, they would tell me I was a lightweight. Most pass out after a few sentences. One boasted that he had gotten through 6.5. On TV, in movies, the voice makes you laugh, it makes you cry, it makes Jacob's mom cry, it calms you, soothes you, re-vitalizes you, and makes you believe in God. in person, Morgan Freeman's voice gets you drunk. Instantly drunk. For me, it had taken 5 words: "Hello, I am Morgan Freeman."

I Had A Dream

I was walking through a pool of marshmallows in my flip-flops. At least, they looked like marshmallows. Soft, fluffy, and white. They tasted kind of like flip-flops. I dove in the pool. The crowd was cheering wildly. The French guy was ahead but somehow I knew I would catch him. So i didn't bother trying to catch him. Michael Phelps was there, but he didn't look like Michael Phelps, and that was kind of... freaking me out. I wasn't swimming anymore. I was driving in a car. Michael Phelps was still there, but he still didn't look like Michael Phelps and that was still... freaking me out. A squirrel joined us, then a wolf. They were both singing, "Rock me Baby". I knew it wasn't real. Nothing was real. It was like Strawberry Fields Forever. But it wasn't real. It was a dream. I couldn't wake up. A giant panda was chasing me through a restaurant. I knew it "eats shoots and leaves", and I didn't want to be the "shoots". I kept running. I knew I was about to wake up. Then suddenly, I woke up. 

Halloweentown IV, Lost in New York. And by New York, I mean Decatur...

It was a cold, dark, night. Nothing moved, nothing even breathed the quietest whisper - except of course for the hundreds of greedy children dressed in their tacky, scary, lazy, expensive, slutty, and/or cheap costumes, all trying to get as much candy as possible. I fully admit, I was one of them. 

"Hey nice costume!" A boy behind me shouted. I turned in surprise - I hadn't recognized the voice. What I saw was a kid wearing a "scream" mask. This was not frightening at all, but rather mildly annoying. You see, I also had on a "scream" mask. I knew I should never have chosen it. My friends all had extremely unique, creative costumes; a baked potato, the energizer bunny, Dick Cheney, and Janet Jackson. And yes, Janet was being represented by a male. Named Chad. But that's beside the point. The point is, just then I heard another voice from behind me. It was a female voice. She said, "Hey I like your costume!" and she giggled. 

She passed us by just long enough for me to catch a glimpse of the scream mask. I rolled my eyes. This was a bad idea, because now I couldn't see at all. I ripped it off for a second. 

"Hey you don't get any candy cause you're not wearing your costume!" The girl had finished giving all my friends candy, and was intelligently pointing out that my mask no longer covered my face. By intelligently, I mean, extremely annoyingly. I put my mask back on. 

"Trick or treat!" I hated saying it. It was demeaning. But I did NOT hate candy. I the-opposite-of-hated candy. So i said it anyways.

"Ok here you go!" The girl stuck a tootsie-roll in my Kroger bag. I sighed. I hated tootsie-rolls. 

"Yo dude, nice costume." I turned and walked past the guy in the scream mask and back to the road. I looked at my bag. Then I looked at all my friend's bags. This made me slightly upset, because mine was the 2nd smallest bag. You might say, "hey at least its not THE smallest!" but you would not be helping to ease my mood, because Derek didn't really count. Derek was the one with the smallest bag. Derek was a vegan. He did not eat milk chocolate. He only took dark chocolate and candy. So he had a massive disadvantage in the biggest-bag contest. 

Earlier on, the race had been tight between Chad and Jeff, but that was before Jeff emptied an entire plastic pumpkin full of candy into his bag, even including the sign saying, "please take only 1". This had pissed off Chad, who had still not gotten over it. 

"Trick or Treat!" I said to the elderly woman at the door. 

"Trick or Treat!" said Derek, Chad, Jeff, and John, almost at the same time. 

"Trick or Treat!" said the guy behind me wearing a scream mask. 

The lady placed a mini box of raisins in each of our bags. Thats right, a mini box of... RAISINS. She kind of stared us down, daring us to make a comment about her healthy halloween treat. None of us did make a comment about her healthy halloween treat. Except for Chad, but he muttered it under his breath, and she didn't hear him. 

The night was almost over. We were arriving at our final house. We sauntered up the driveway, and there it was. A big box of candy with a sign that sayed, "please take only 2" on the front. Chad looked at Jeff and ran for it. Jeff beat him there again. But just as he put his hand in to grab as much as he could, the box moved. The scarecrow that was holding it was not a scarecrow. It was a man dressed as a scarecrow. Jeff yelped and scampered away, dropping his bag behind him in terror. Chad screamed, but had the presence of mine to pick up Jeff's bag. He was now firmly in the lead in the race for the most candy. 

"Hey nice costume!" said a deep voice behind me. I turned around, threw off my mask, and hurled it into the woods. 

"Thanks," I said passing him by.

It was my last halloween. 

Mrs. Sutton sees a fly in her soup. List 5 possible reactions...

1) She eats the fly, exclaiming, "hey its a great source of protein."

2) She takes out the fly with her fingers, crushes it with distain, and throws its dead body away. 

3) She throws the entire bowl of soup disgustedly in the sink. 

4) She surreptitiously exchanges her bowl of soup for MR. Sutton's bowl while he's not looking. Then she tells him, "Hey honey, I think there's a fly in your soup!"

5) She shrugs, and apathetically eats the soup. 

My Near Death Experience

My experience with the tornado was a near-death. As the wind whipped around me like, "I can't believe its not butter", and the leaves swayed drunkenly about, my life flashed before my eyes. I was going to die. But then suddenly, I saw the face of hope, my savior, my rescuer, an angel in the light, a shining beacon in the face of hopelessness: Ms. A. Williams. She showed me the way inside to safety. without her, there is no doubt I would be dead and gone, merely another victim of the incomperable wrath of the Georgia Tornado. 

My Pen...

My pen matches my shirt. This was not on purpose. It was a completely unplanned occurrance. The shirt was not picked out so that it would match with the pen. In fact, this is not even my pen! I borrowed it, with no intention of ever returning it! However, it is my shirt. I bought it. At Target. For 20$. Because its a Braves shirt. And I heart the braves.

Most Important Lesson. Ever.

It was a hot summer day. Too hot. The sun beat down unmercifully on my shoulders. The wind, the seething, unsoothing wind, whipped the desert sand into my eyes. The heat was almost unbearable. How could it be so hot? I took a quick drink of water. It was still cool in its bottle, but refreshement lasted merely for the blink of an eyelid. It lasted as long as the amount of sleep I got last night divided by the amount of sleep I WISH I had gotten last night. In milliseconds. I put the bottle back in the camel's saddle. We stopped moving. I think we had arrived back at the beginning. I moved forward. Then suddenly, something struck me. it was not a thought, but rather a giant blob of spit. From the camel. It had careened into the side of my face with the force of an angry bull. I cried out, injured and appalled, exclaiming a phrase that shall never again be repeated. I wiped the spit off with disgust. It fell to the ground with a loud splat. I turned to the camel. It glared at me, as if to say "Yeah. I just spit in your face. You wanna do something about it?" I didn't "wanna do something about it". I walked away, with a profound lesson instilled in my soul: Always pay attention to the world around you, or a camel will spit in your face.

Home Alone IV: Lost in New York... Again

The wind outside hummed softly. The floorboard creaked. The blinds tapped gently against the glass window. Jimmy tossed and turned in his bed, sleeping, but barely resting at all. A shadow loomed over his bed. It reached out its finger and sharply tickled Jimmy's chin. He woke with a start.
Outside the wind moaned in dispair. The flooboard creaked. The blinds rapped angrily against the glass window. Jimmy's eyes were wide open. His brain, too, was wide awake, racing, full of thoughts of terror and abduction, thoughts of murder. He scrambled out from under the covers. He searched anxiously for the lightswitch. Finally his hand closed around the blessed little switch, and he pushed it upwards, waiting for light to cascade from his ceiling lamp. But it never came. Back and forth he turned the switch, but to no avail. Frantically he began to fumble around for his flashlight. His hands raced along the top of his cupboard. His fingers hit against the cold steel of the flashlight. He sighed with relief, before he heard the crash. The crash of the flashlight shattering on the floor. Jimmy was terrified. The room was black as night, dark as the devil's soul. How could it be so dark? The moon leered at him through the blinds. Its light gave him no light. It mocked him, it humiliated him, it laughed at him. Jimmy and his Krispy Kreme boxers stood alone in the dark.
Outside, the wind howled with rage. The floorboard creaked. The blinds thumped violently against the window. Jimmy now stumbled towards the door, tears of terror trailing down his face. His hand grasped the knob. He turned it. It gave a satisfying click, such a relieving sound! He gently pulled the door open, 1, 2, 6 inches open, and he began to step through the doorway. Suddenly, the door snapped violently shut. With incredible strength, the door stood still. Jimmy was trapped. he began to moan, and then to yell and scream. A voice answered him, shouting, howling. Jimmy screamed louder and louder but he could not overpower the voice. It kept howling, it challenged him, it terrified him. It defeated him. Jimmy was beyond dispair, beyond comprehension. The shadow was back, towering over him, beating and baffling his senses, pummeling his soul. Jimmy stood over the precipice of death. He looked down. It was so far away, but yet so close. He began to fall, spinning, tumbling, towards the Great End. The door was finally flung open, a terrible crash outside immidiately followed. The screams of the world lashed against his window. Jimmy stood up suddenly and...
Nothing happened. The door cordially closed shut. The lights flickered and then turned on. Outside, the wind whistled soothingly. The floorboard was silent. The blinds rattled softly and rhythmically against the window. Jimmy climbed back into bed, trembling with relief. He was 26.

Something REALLY Rotten

Dick Cheney's gun rested, smoking, in his hands. The quail had fled at the sound of the gunshot. Dick coughed with confusion, then muttered an expletive under his breath. One moment he had seen the quail, and he pulled the trigger to shoot at it and... 

"Alright we got Dick Cheney," they said triumphantly as they stepped over Dick's dead body. "Now we just gotta kill Hamilton's Dad!" Roscoe and Gilbert reloaded their guns, threw them back over their shoulders, and proceeded to drag Dick's body towards the stream, at the bottom of a steep and treacherous cliff. With a tremendous heave they tossed the body over the cliff. 

"CRAP!" They both exclaimed, at the exact same time. Their guns had gotten tangled up in the body and thrown down into the stream with it. 

"I guess we'll have to use poison," said Roscoe. 

"I guess we'll just have to use poison," said Gilbert. 

"I just said that, what the Hell!" said Roscoe.

"No, I added a 'just' before 'have to use poison'," replied Gilbert, "It made it better." 

"You know what Gilbert, you are just downright annoying sometimes!" Roscoe shouted indignantly. 

"You know what Rosceo, that is... NOT the point. The point is, we need to go kill Hamilton's dad."

"Wait," Roscoe thought for a moment, "Why are we killing Hamilton's dad? Like, what's the point?"

"Um..." Gilbert paused. Then he said, "Because then they would find out about it in the 4th act of the play!"

"Oh that makes sense. its all about that play... That's what they paid us for."

"Roscoe, you're an idiot. They're not paying us a dime."

"WHAT? Why? That's ridiculous! What, we're just gonna kill him for free? What do we get out of it?" Roscoe was outraged. 

"No Roscoe, its genius. See, we're suspects in the play. Everyone would suspect that they paid us to do this. so if they don't pay us, they'll NEVER know! We will TOTALLY get away with it!"

"But then what's the point of killing him?" Roscoe was still unsure. 

Gilbert cleared his throat. "Roscoe, you ever heard people be like, 'Man I would KILL for some Italian food!'?" 

"Um..."

"Hamilton's mom is cooking us some Italian food. She invited us for dinner. We are literally , killing for some Italian food. Personally, I think its brilliant. No, scratch me thinking it. It IS brilliant. 

"Gilbert why the hell would she want her husband dead?"

"She hates his guts."

"Oh." Roscoe's outrage was satisfied. "So how are we gonna kill him?"

"Hold on." Gilbert's phone rang. It was the Super Mario Brothers theme song. He answered it. "Hello? Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, Dick's dead and we're about to kill Rex. Poison. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, alright. Alright. Yeah, alright, we'll call you when its done. We're almost at your house. Alright. Alright, bye." He hung up.

"Alright Roscoe, lets go." They walked up to Hamilton's house. his dad was outside. 

"Hey Rex, try some of this moonshine. We brewed it ourselves. Its delicious!"

"Um... Ok." He drank it. After a while, he died, of poison. They rang the doorbell. 

"Now lets go eat some ITALIAN FOOD!"

Age Before Booty: A Shaggy Dog Story For The Ages

"Dad I'm leaving!"

"Son, I don't care if its the Prom. You better be home before 12:00"

"But Dad it ends at 11:30 and it takes half an hour to get home."

"Son I'm not arguing with you. You have to be home by midnight."

"But Dad I have to take Crystal home and..." his voice trailed off.

"Son. She's 17. Her birthday's not till Wednesday."

"I know but-"

"NO. Son, i've told you before. "Age before booty."

THE END.

Interview Questions

- What's your name? How do you spell it?
- Where were you born?
- Where did you grow up?
- Tell me about family life?
- Did you have any children?
- What was your first job? What did you end up doing as a career?
- What did you make at your first job?
- Tell me about the school/s you attended?
- If you could leave one message to today's youth, what would it be?

Can you paint with all the colors, of the wind?

Deep and murky, the depths of me, of my soul, froth and simmer, turning about like dirty laundry, brown, brazen, calmly boiling, serenely stirring about,, trapped, restricted. And out of the depths, a lemon bursts free, its spirit soaring high above its prison. "Me! Me!", it shouts, "I am free!"And yellow! So yellow. How could it be so yellow? Its free, free of rhyme, free from time, even with its rhythm and rhyme, the lemon-lime majestically shines. Then, with a soft shiver, the lime quivers in mid-air, sparkles fall to the ground, pink as a panther, smooth as the silkiest pearl. Soft shards of pink build up on the ground, higher and higher, a tower in the sky, in the high heaven of Earth. Slowly the pink darkens, blushes deeply, reddens in anger, in confusions, and with a scream they burst in the air, boldly molding into liquid. Thick and dark the redness gushes down, and settles down serene, screening the sun from view, yet holding the light of that giant star. Calmly the green shines, as around it the sky darkens, crickets chirp, owls screech with starvation, then the green begins to turn, to froth and bubble, to darken, once more, into brown. 

Dear Juicy,

Dear Juicy (A.k.a. Jesse),
I just got your picture! In the mail! I LOVED it! Such a beautiful mayfly! Its blue wings thrust majestically from its sturdy frame. They are so pale and yet so blue! How can they be so blue? its limbs, spindly as dry twigs, protrude from its body, miniature springs that help the mayfly transition to and from flight. Its eyes perfectly round, stare straight at me, so bright and blue. How can they be so blue? Its tail sways downwards, perfectly coiled by Nature's hands. And antennaes four of them, two on top and two on bottom, strands of a hammock swinging in the breeze. Oh Juicy this mayfly reminds me so much of you, and your majestic grace. This mayfly, Jesse, it IS you.