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!"