tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1952672598901451802024-03-13T08:51:47.601-06:00How Things Aren'tUnfounded, Untested, and Disturbingly Biased FactsT. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.comBlogger38125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195267259890145180.post-90682802479475653902016-01-06T21:02:00.001-07:002016-01-06T21:41:07.311-07:00I Need You to Think I'm Interesting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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"I like change." Is a sentence I've said perhaps five hundred times within the past few months. It's often in response to comments about my facial hair. After having a neatly shorn face for several years, I've been trying all sorts of crazy things with my facial follicles. And by "all sorts of crazy things" I mean I grew a beard, shaved it into a mustache, and then grew a beard again. Yep, you may as well call me the Charles Manson of beard growing. I'm <i>that </i>crazy.<br />
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But here's the thing. After saying, "I like change" for the five hundredth time within the past few months (and probably the five kabillionth time in my life), I realized that I'm full of crap.<br />
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I'm fatter now than I was at 22. That's a change, and it kinda sucks. If all the oxygen on the planet was suddenly sucked away, I wouldn't be thinking, "Oooh, this is a BIG change. Today is awesome."<br />
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Instead of saying, "I like change", I should be saying, "I like change when I like it, but I don't like change when I don't like it", which is exactly the same as saying nothing.<br />
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And it's not just "change", and it's not just me. People say things like, "I'm an adrenaline junky" when what they really mean is, "I like bungee jumping as long as I'm double strapped into a harness by a trained professional and there's a giant net below me." I've never heard a self-proclaimed adrenaline junky say, "My two-year-old went missing for an hour yesterday at the mall. It was a killer rush, you gotta try it."<br />
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"I love the outdoors." Really? All of it? The Gobi Desert? Antarctica? Space? As long as it's not in a building, you love it?<br />
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"I love reading." Just reading? Anything? Ok, to be fair, this one might be true. If you're a pre-schooler. If not, it's more likely that you love reading specific things that are interesting to you.<br />
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Why are we so anxious to make these broad claims about ourselves? It's like we're trying, in as few words as possible, to make sure we get cataloged as "interesting" in people's brains. "Okay, Tyler. He's the change liker. Very interesting. Sally? Hmmm. Oh yeah, she's the reader. Fabulously interesting."<br />
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The problem, in my case, is there's nothing at all interesting about "liking change". Even if I step off my pedestal and admit that most people aren't going to take the statement "I like change" to a stupidly literal degree, it still doesn't say anything meaningful about who I am. I imagine half the people in the world would say they like change. I may as well say I'm male. "Oh yeah, Tyler. He's the one who's male. Soooo Interesting." <br />
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If I'm looking for distinction, making a ridiculously generic statement about myself may not be the best way to find it. So rather than trying to force feed people a version of myself that I think they'll think is Interesting, I'm just going to relax and let people think of me what they will.<br />
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I love adrenaline rushes... for about three seconds on roller coasters. Then I get a headache and want go home and eat a taco.<br />
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I love the outdoors... as long as I'm escapably close to the "indoors". And there aren't any bugs. And it's not too hot or too cold. And I have my iPhone.<br />
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I love to read... stuff that I write. And I love to pretend I'm humbly accepting a Pulitzer prize for it.<br />
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Oh, and you want to know what's up with my various beard configurations? Well, the naked truth is that I'm desperately trying to make myself better looking, but nothing is working.<br />
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There, now you know some real things about me. "Okay, Tyler. He's the shallow, self-absorbed guy. meh."<br />
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But for the record, I really DO like change... though I prefer bills.<br />
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(Also, I love"dad" jokes. Every. Single. One.)<br />
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<br />T. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195267259890145180.post-84670168126222563402013-11-18T18:07:00.000-07:002013-11-19T11:51:09.381-07:00Tears<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Daryl laughed. It was something he hadn't done before. He had gasped, he had screamed, and - most often - had made no sound at all. But he had never laughed while dying. The absurdity of it made him laugh even harder, but he died all the same. A thousand times he had been to this place. A thousand times he had never left.<br />
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Again he stood at the gate, looking in. The moon was overhead, but its light was subdued by a wafting black mist which enveloped the courtyard. Daryl couldn't see past the stone fountain that stood, crumbling and waterless, a few feet in front of him. No matter - he knew what lay beyond. <br />
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He could leave. He <i>should</i> leave. Just run away and never return. But where would he go? Where there was no danger, there was no life, and this pitiful, ravished world no longer held any dangers for him. Save one.<br />
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He dropped his sword and reached for the slim silver dagger in his belt. He had learned long ago that the sword was too cumbersome a weapon for this battle. The creature was agile - unbelievably so, and speed was more valuable than power when tangling with it.<br />
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<i>The eyes, </i>He thought, <i>if I can just take its eyes. </i>It was a guess. Daryl didn't know whether the monster's eyes were vulnerable, but it was something he had never managed. Besides, the thing had to have <i>some</i> weakness. Nothing was immortal.<br />
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Stealing past the fountain, Daryl approached the ring of rotting corpses and decaying bones surrounding the inner court. How many hundreds - how many thousands - had perished between the teeth of this beast. Gods help him, how many of these corpses were his <i>own</i>? He pointedly directed his gaze away from the carnage and toward the center of the ring where the demon would be waiting. It wasn't there.<br />
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Daryl heard movement but was too slow to react. The creature's talons sunk into his back and thrust him across the courtyard. <i>It was waiting for me. </i>He thought dimly as he crashed into a pile of death. <i>How did it... </i>Everything went black. <br />
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But then, his surroundings began to take dim shape from out of the darkness. He was still alive. Daryl twisted his head slightly and could see the shape of his attacker approaching leisurely. <i>It thinks I'm dead! </i>He thought. The thrill of his predicament quelled any worry about the bleeding wounds in his back. He still held the dagger in his right hand and he clenched it tightly as the beast neared.<br />
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It was walking on four of its six legs, with the front two lifted slightly off the ground. The talons of these were dripping with, he assumed, Daryl's own blood. It was a beautiful creature. Its silvery black skin seemed to luminesce in the foggy moonlight. It bent its massive head to survey its kill, and Daryl thrust.<br />
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The scream was sickening. Daryl's silver dagger sunk easily into the creature's left eye. Black blood poured from the wound as Daryl retracted with his knife. He quickly stood and, dodging thrashing legs, backed away. The beast was wounded, but not dead. Daryl considered a strike at the remaining eye, but it was no use. The razor-sharp talons attached to the creature's frenetic legs were too unpredictable. One misstep and it would be over. He would have to throw the dagger. It was a small and moving target, but Daryl was well practiced. One true throw. That's all he needed. He took careful aim.<br />
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"DARYL!" A woman's voice made him jump. He looked instinctively toward the source of the shout, and in that moment the angry beast was on top of him, tearing out his throat.<br />
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Again the voice. "Turn off that game and come down for dinner!"<br />
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Daryl cried.<br />
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<br />T. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195267259890145180.post-42914064177170969572013-05-26T16:11:00.000-06:002013-11-18T15:21:53.450-07:00Airplane<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />T. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195267259890145180.post-14479653848244288482012-11-07T09:57:00.000-07:002012-11-07T15:32:37.089-07:00Did Sandy Cost Romney the Election?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Based on reported election data, about 50% of US voters are pleased with yesterday's results. 2% are strutting around self importantly for having belligerently defied the two-party system, and 48% are left to wonder what went wrong.<br />
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Pundits from both parties are pointing to various "game changing" moments of the spirited campaign. (Incidentally "spirited" is the post-results replacement for any of the following words: bitter, venomous, vitriolic, damaging, embarrassing, caustic, negative, hostile, disgraceful.)<br />
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But, according to one republican voter, none of the gaffes or boons being mentioned is responsible for Mitt Romney's ultimate failure.<br />
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Sandy Thompson, a paralegal from Trenton, New Jersey, tearfully divulged to reporters early this morning that during the whole of yesterday's election she was, in fact, not wearing her lucky socks.<br />
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"I could have sworn I had them on.", Sandy sobbed to the news crew of WZBN. "I put them out special on Monday night, but somehow I grabbed the wrong pair on Tuesday morning."<br />
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Sandy's friend and neighbor Steven Cooth recalled the moment Sandy realized she was wearing the wrong socks. "A bunch of us were hanging out a Sandy's house last night watching the results come in. We were all pulling for Romney, and Sandy was the only one who didn't seem concerned about what was happening. Every time an update showed Obama pulling further ahead, she just looked at all of us with a knowing expression on her face. But then, around 10:45 (PM), Beth made a comment about how cute Sandy's socks were. Sandy looked down and screamed."<br />
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According to Sandy, her lucky socks - acquired in 2003 from a Macy's in Woodbourne - have been responsible for two Super Bowl championships, three raises, and a free roast beef sandwich from Arby's.<br />
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Sandy stated that she has already written formal apology letters to both the Republican National Committee and Mitt Romney himself. "I know it's too little too late, but I need them to know how deeply, deeply sorry I am for this."<br />
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Concerned about the longevity of her lucky socks, Sandy plans to vacuum seal them in a plastic baggie and store them in her freezer until 2016's election.<br />
<br />T. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195267259890145180.post-79464801548310264922012-10-09T17:40:00.002-06:002012-11-05T08:33:25.786-07:00The Definitive Guide to Running<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I am interested in running. Very interested. In fact, my interest in running may border on obsession. Actually, psychologists are in the process of creating a new word that will be to obsession what obsession is to interest, and other psychologists are working on an even newer word that will be to the old new word what the old new word is to obsession. This new new word will aptly describe my relationship with running. (For the remainder of this post I will refer to the latter of the two future words as "<i>new-new-word</i>".)<br />
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And yet, I have only ever written <a href="http://howthingsarent.blogspot.com/2010/05/pheidippides-behind-music.html" target="_blank">one</a> and a <span id="goog_1283989985"></span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/">half<span id="goog_1283989986"></span></a> blog posts about running. Why? Because there are already exactly 159 kabajillion runners out there maintaining wonderful, well-written, informative blogs about the subject.<br />
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So why now? Well, due to my <i>new-new-word</i>, I have actually read all 159 kabajillion blogs about running - along with news articles, scientific studies, training tips, and everything else returned by a Google search on the word "running". (Incidentally, if your lawnmower has stopped running - try fresh gasoline and a new spark plug.) Thus, I have inadvertently become the worlds foremost expert on running, and it behooves me to outline the sum of my knowledge for the betterment of all humankind.<br />
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Whether you are a full-blown Olympian or on the day's third bag of Cheetos thinking idly to yourself that it might be time to get in shape, this guide is for you. It is based on more scientific studies, anecdotal hearsay, product claims, and out-of-context absolutes than I could ever possibly cite, so you're going to just have to trust me.<br />
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I may write more on the subject later, but in this guide I'll address four key principles that have historically been points of confusion among beginning and seasoned runners alike.<br />
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<b>1 - Consistency</b><br />
The first and most important principle of running is consistency. Ideally, you will run at least once every day. Multiple runs each day is best as your body was built to perform rigorously without the need of downtime (cheetah's never take a day off!), but keep in mind that your body needs rest. Without rest, you run the risk of over training and burnout. Rest is particularly important after a long race, such as a marathon - which requires a minimum of two weeks respite from running. But again, be consistent because, no matter how long you have been running, your body will lose literally all of its conditioning in as little as two weeks. But, a week or two off here and there won't hurt - in fact it can actually help. Additionally, try not to be<i> too</i> consistent in your training regimen. Inconsistency can create muscle confusion which accelerates improvement.<br />
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<b>2- Nutrition</b><br />
The second and most important principle of running is nutrition. What you eat is your fuel. You wouldn't put garbage in the gas tank of a sports car and expect peak performance [insert "Back to the Future" joke here], and you likewise can't expect your body to perform well when you fill it with less than stellar fuel.<br />
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Nature provides the purest possible fuel for the human body. Your body can best metabolize whole grains and raw fruits and vegetables. Stay away from gimmicky gels and sports drinks unless they are backed by scientific sounding claims. Focus on consuming foods high in carbohydrates. Carbohydrates are the fast-burning fuel your body needs for high-intensity exercise. Also eat plenty of protein else your body will begin to feed off its own muscles when the quick-burning carbohydrates are depleted.<br />
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Remember, while running, your metabolism is like the furnace in a steam engine. When it's stoked, you can put nearly anything into it and the engine will convert it to fuel, so just make sure you eat a lot of stuff. But always keep in mind that between the glycogen stored in your muscles and the calories in your fat cells, you will never run out of fuel - even on extraordinarily long runs so, to prevent stomach problems, it's best to not eat anything before or during a run.<br />
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After a long run, if you don't consume the perfect combination of protein, carbohydrates and electrolytes within 30 minutes, your brain will dissolve. The single best post-run fuel is chocolate milk, or a name-brand recovery shake, or sweet and condensed milk, or a Slurpee, but it's sometimes best to forgo the after-workout meal in order to train your body to more efficiently draw on its fat stores.<br />
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<b>3- Hydration</b><br />
Hydration is absolutely the single most important principle of running. The human body is comprised of between 55% and 90% water, so it is imperative that you stay properly hydrated as you run. Under hydration can cause headaches, nausea, confusion, seizures and even death, so drink plenty of fluids. Over hydration can be equally dangerous, so don't over do it. The key is to drink exactly the right amount.<br />
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Water is nature's truest form of hydration for the human body, so always drink plain water unless you have access to pickle juice, or a drink that has been formulated by a team of scientists to hydrate better than water.<br />
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<b>4- Improvement</b><br />
None of us wants to be a slow runner. The single desire common amongst each and every runner on this planet, except those not concerned with pace, is to become faster. But what is the best way to improve speed? Simple, you just have to do aerobic base training and/or lots of hill runs and/or Intense interval training and/or tempo runs and/or proper cross-training and/or barefoot running and/or chi running and/or Yasso 800's and/or proper breathing techniques. And remember, music is like caffeine - you should always/never rely on it to enhance your performance.<br />
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If this guide has failed to answer a question you have about running, please feel free to contact me. I will do my best to tell you something that sounds like it could be true.<br />
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<br />T. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195267259890145180.post-72704870664914474382012-05-10T15:55:00.000-06:002012-11-05T09:21:23.652-07:00Who Then, If Not the Mayans?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As this fateful year moves forward, nudging the world closer and closer to its presumptive doom on December 21, I'm starting to suspect that the Mayans were full of crap. Okay, that's not fair. The Mayans didn't start all this hoopla about the world ending; they just made a calendar. Okay, that's not fair either. The Mayans did a lot of things. They built enormous temples and pyramids, pioneered revolutionary agricultural production methods, studied advanced mathematics with a base 20 numbering system, and cut the hearts out of living people as sacrifice to idol gods. They also made a calendar.<br />
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The Mayan calendar spans a period of 5,126 years and happens to end on December 21, 2012. To many, this means that the Mayans had privy knowledge about the ultimate fate of the world. To me, it means that Mayan calendar salesmen didn't have many repeat customers.<br />
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I have a calendar hanging on my wall that was created by a civilization much more advanced than that of the Mayans. My calendar stops on December 31, 2012. Well, it actually stops on January 31, 2013 if you count the mini January superimposed in the bottom right-hand corner of December. Does this mean that the maker of my calendar is predicting the world will end next January? Maybe it does, I've actually never met the man. But we probably won't see many big-budget Hollywood productions pop up based on his calendar. Why then the Mayans'? Probably because they carved theirs on a rock.<br />
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If people want to prove whether or not the Mayan calendar really is inexorably tied to the fate of the planet, why not check to see if the world began existing on August 11, 3114 BC? I mean it must have, right? That's when the Mayan calendar starts.<br />
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You may be thinking that I'm just out to bash all the lunatics jumping on the Mayan bandwagon, but I'm really not. See, as common sense erodes my faith in the Mayans' ability to tell the future, I'm left with a problem. Who really does know when the world is going to end? I know a lot of people say we should live our lives as if every day were our last, but that's just not practical. I certainly wouldn't go to work on my last day in mortality. I wouldn't worry about retirement planning, exercise, taxes, or even bathing. It therefore behooves me to find out exactly when the world is going to end, so I can know when to stop wasting my time with all those things. But whom can I trust to make an accurate prediction?<br />
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That question was rhetorical. Not because it has no answer, but because I already know how to find the answer. And don't worry, this is scientific.<br />
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The current world population is roughly 6.8 billion. If we have every person on earth make a prediction about the end of the world by picking a distinct day between now and 6.8 billion days from now, we'll have the next 18.6 million years covered. When the world ends, we'll check the list and see who picked the correct day. That person will be the person we can trust, and we can start making life plans around his/her prediction. <br />
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But wait! What if the world lasts longer than 18.6 million years from now? Don't worry. Each new day approximately 490,000 children are born. As soon they're old enough to point to a number, we'll have them pick a date. This will extend the number of predicted days by over 1300 years every day. Using this system, we'll never hit the end. I mean... until we hit the <i>end</i>. <br />
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So hurry up and pick your day because they'll go quick. We'll reserve December 21, 2012 for the Mayans, and January 31, 2013 for the dude who made the calendar hanging on my wall.<br />
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<br />T. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195267259890145180.post-39242390651949950182012-02-29T16:08:00.001-07:002012-11-05T08:28:47.202-07:00Facebook Generation<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBx6xyPP8dhkY1_iCGzzGye4ytdiWryWLhgeYeTku80TQ92jW3hwhe20R-bQT1zvNAAULWsUXTDFbJyByNoMMVm5YYu8fWQKpxZHHCPo3IbJ8Y9BjLYKe_qzGB2YXdZ0J7vM1-URLIMjkZ/s1600/Facebook.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5714698525792500514" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBx6xyPP8dhkY1_iCGzzGye4ytdiWryWLhgeYeTku80TQ92jW3hwhe20R-bQT1zvNAAULWsUXTDFbJyByNoMMVm5YYu8fWQKpxZHHCPo3IbJ8Y9BjLYKe_qzGB2YXdZ0J7vM1-URLIMjkZ/s320/Facebook.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 251px;" /></a>T. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195267259890145180.post-40552804061525819502012-02-20T05:00:00.011-07:002012-11-05T08:38:24.836-07:00Happy ((Washington's Birthday) - 2)<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYChUdAJaBCy86D-gZ2SaN9I3hMTeGo_ioiIHDyPglsjEC8VrdAuTqCLaftddAZFfHQMY4i63JsTg3Fsd147g2Sf23Tdmctd2xCIBibx7XweEWj0u6PfKFiLt8miRgY9vUBXu-iI4AMRiM/s1600/washingtonBirthday.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 220px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709873225565549698" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYChUdAJaBCy86D-gZ2SaN9I3hMTeGo_ioiIHDyPglsjEC8VrdAuTqCLaftddAZFfHQMY4i63JsTg3Fsd147g2Sf23Tdmctd2xCIBibx7XweEWj0u6PfKFiLt8miRgY9vUBXu-iI4AMRiM/s320/washingtonBirthday.jpg" border="0" /></a>When my children were younger, their birthday celebrations were rarely on their <em>actual </em>birthdays. We would pick a day that was most convenient for us, and for any possible attendees.<br /><br />Now that they're older, and somewhat more cognizant of the numbers on a calendar, the kids prefer the celebrations be on the exact dates of their births (or rather the anniversaries thereof).<br /><br />Makes sense I suppose. I mean, we're celebrating a very specific day. Some people like cake and ice cream, some like piñatas. Others prefer pinning tails on donkeys or running the celebrant through a tunnel of spankers. The ways to celebrate birthdays are as varied as the individuals being celebrated, but among all these variables, shouldn't the one constant be the date itself? Else why associate the name of the day with birth at all? Why not just have annual, "we're all happy you're still alive" parties?<br /><br />And so I come to my point. George Washington was born on February 22, and yet we celebrate his birthday on the third Monday in February. Any third grader who has learned how to multiply by seven will be able to deduce that the third Monday in February will <em>never</em> fall on the 22nd. Why couldn't it have been the fourth Monday in February? At least then we would occasionally get it right. And why does it have to be on a Monday at all? Well, as to that, it's because of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uniform_Monday_Holiday_Act" target="_blank">"Uniform Monday Holiday Act"</a> - essentially the federal government's way of saying, "Honey I know your birthday is on Wednesday, but Aunt Marge won't be able to come unless we do it on Monday."<br /><br />Can we please stop treating the father of our country like a two-year-old? He knows when his birthday is. And, though as a rule I am a fan of irony, the fact that the federal government has honored George Washington - a man who fought to establish a <span style="font-style: italic;">less</span> invasive government - by literally taking away his birthday... well, that's so much irony that it cloys in my mouth.<br /><br />Now, of the five people who will eventually read this post, I'm sure there will be at least one apt to argue that the holiday is called Presidents Day, not Washington's Birthday. To you I say, you're wrong. While some individual states have changed the name internally, the federal holiday is called <a href="http://www.opm.gov/operating_status_schedules/fedhol/2012.asp" target="_blank">Washington's Birthday.</a></div>T. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195267259890145180.post-2408067042606943392011-12-29T14:12:00.004-07:002012-11-05T08:29:07.373-07:00Portmanteaus<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDE3AO6joDugpHFZO3Kb05VF4hlXggN6XB8DshzDAnby6JtC7SGVNfOCYyVw9LVQyCNGLsFS_fAs0jOpSrWD2FKxsTiQ4Q2s-VYSnpumsNhXDISELlXdCXe30fZpNnrFVOg7g4yYxv_Jqn/s1600/ImageFromArtStudio.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5691661360768717394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDE3AO6joDugpHFZO3Kb05VF4hlXggN6XB8DshzDAnby6JtC7SGVNfOCYyVw9LVQyCNGLsFS_fAs0jOpSrWD2FKxsTiQ4Q2s-VYSnpumsNhXDISELlXdCXe30fZpNnrFVOg7g4yYxv_Jqn/s320/ImageFromArtStudio.png" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 191px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 320px;" /></a>T. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195267259890145180.post-79738703883243975842011-11-08T06:00:00.006-07:002012-11-05T08:34:32.757-07:00The Return of... How To's Day<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQJ7YzdUUtoK20TWbciTtBZUWLf2nYzwsCEH-pkzVs-HNDpqYF5lGraKNBjpIEB1ZXqY0MzkG0WEziilXBnR-yforIfa6Qey4_bK-Fv5TVRcwJgDkuKbjMG7L-5F7Wi1DMUlaRpTP8OQK_/s1600/tuesday.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 154px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672467497110734274" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQJ7YzdUUtoK20TWbciTtBZUWLf2nYzwsCEH-pkzVs-HNDpqYF5lGraKNBjpIEB1ZXqY0MzkG0WEziilXBnR-yforIfa6Qey4_bK-Fv5TVRcwJgDkuKbjMG7L-5F7Wi1DMUlaRpTP8OQK_/s320/tuesday.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>How to Obtain a Restraining Order Without Hurting Your Stalker's Feelings</strong></span><br /><br />Okay, it was cute at first. The roses showing up on your desk at work. The daily letters professing undying devotion. The phrase "I am always watching" scrolled across your mirror in lipstick accompanied by a montage of photographs of you asleep in your bed.<br /><br />All innocent fun, but enough is enough. The next car bomb you find, attached to your ignition after a date with another man, might actually be functional. It's finally time to obtain a restraining order.<br /><br />But herein lies the dilemma. On the one hand you know that your life is in very real danger. The obsessive and destructive attentions of someone who is so obviously mentally unstable and quite probably psychopathic make legal intervention practically unavoidable. But on the other hand, you know that a restraining order will just crush your stalker emotionally.<br /><br />So how can you protect both your own life, and the feelings of he who is threatening it? Below are three possible methods. Some adaptation may be required, based on your individual stalker's temperament and your state's laws, so be prepared for a bit of improvisation.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Method 1: Make it Look Like and Accident<br /><br /></strong></span>This is the simplest method, but it can be a bit transparent. When considering this option, judge your stalker's intelligence. If it is decidedly lacking, this is the method for you.<br /><br />First, you'll need to arrange a document swap at your local courthouse. To do this, text - DO NOT CALL - a casual friend. Stalkers usually have bugs in your home, so all of your planning should be done via text message. Also, stalkers tend to keep an eye on the close friends of their victims, so a casual friend is best to contact for help.<br /><br />Ask your casual friend to go to the courthouse and obtain an application for a restraining order. Tell her to take the application to the marriage license line and place it at the bottom of the stack of blank marriage license applications.<br /><br />Next, call a close friend (Yes, a CLOSE friend. You want this conversation overheard.), and explain to her that you are tired of fighting your heart. Tell her you've decided to marry your stalker. She will likely freak out and start screaming at you, but you mustn't break character.<br /><br />Now, put on your best love-struck face and drive to the courthouse. If your stalker is at all worthy of the title, he will be following. Once at the courthouse, march directly to the marriage license line and, as subtly as you can, retrieve the restraining order application from the bottom of the pile of marriage license applications. Fill in the application as fast as you can without leaving the counter, and hand it to the waiting clerk.<br /><br />The clerk will probably look at the form and want to tell you that you're in the wrong line. You must stop his objection before he has a chance to say anything. Just hold up your hand, looking as desperate as you can and say, "Please. This has to happen today!" (Your stalker will be over the moon at this.) The clerk will infer that you are in immediate danger and rush the form to the appropriate office.<br /><br />Finally, find a chair in the waiting area and take a seat. Your stalker, amazed that he has finally won you, will emerge after a short time and sit by your side. Just make googly eyes at him until the officers arrive to escort him away from your immediate proximity. When they do, act as surprised as he, and look back confusedly at the marriage license line.<br /><br />Keep in mind that this method depends upon your stalker never returning to the courthouse to compare the marriage application with the restraining order application. There are marked differences between the two, and he may suspect a ruse if he juxtaposes them. Again, only opt for this method if your stalker is really stupid.<span style="font-size:130%;"><strong><br /><br />Method 2: Make Him Think it Was His Idea</strong></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /></span>This method is ideal for the stalker who has demonstrated self-destructive behavior while attempting to prove his devotion. For example, if he has ever walked through a pile of broken glass in order to write your name in blood with his bare feet in the snow-covered park adjacent to your apartment building, this method is probably your best bet.<br /><br />First, you'll need a diary. If you already have one, great! If not, get one and make daily entries for a couple of weeks before proceeding to the next step. Nothing is more enticing to a stalker than a diary. Make sure you leave your diary in a place your stalker will be sure to find it, such as your night stand or underwear drawer.<br /><br />Next, enroll in a law class at your local college. In order to really sell this, you'll need to start confiding in your friends that it has been a long-time dream of yours to pursue a career in law.<br /><br />In your diary, start mentioning your new class. Note how fascinated you are with the intricacies of the law, and how excited you are that you are finally "doing it". Explain that your life, up to now, has been but a sorry attempt to fit into the expectations of others. That you are finally becoming the "you" you always knew you were but were afraid be.<br /><br />Then, after several weeks in the class, muster as much heart-broken angst as you can, and make the following diary entry (in your own words):<em><br /><br />Dear Diary, I fear all is lost. The knowledge I have gained these past weeks in my law class has been as water to dehydrated flesh. I have drunk it in with the zeal of one left for days in the driest of deserts, but now I find there was a pebble in my canteen. A stone which catches in my throat and prohibits the remaining water from reaching my needful stomach.</em><em><br /><br />My professor introduced the concept of restraining orders today, and ,though he spoke in length about the principles governing them, my feeble mind could not grasp his words. I listened, confused, to his entire lecture. Afterward, I explained my lack of understanding to my study group. They too spent much time trying to explain to me the concept. Still, nothing clicked. They insisted that restraining orders are quite simple things, but to me they may as well be ancient and undecipherable glyphs carved in the tombs of kings.</em><em><br /><br />If only there were some way for me to gain actual, real-world experience with restraining orders. To participate in the process from beginning to end. Then, I think I might finally grasp the principles governing the things. But alas, no. I have no reason to file one. No enemies. No persons from whom I wish always to be separated by a minimum of 600 yards.</em><em><br /><br />And so I must awake from the dream that has been these past few weeks. I pray that it fades with the years as the fanciful dreams of night do with the dawn. That I may forget the hope and joy I have so naively, and unworthily held for this brief while.</em><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span>After making this entry, lay down on your bed face down and cry into your pillow until you fall asleep. If you can't make yourself cry, laugh. It's hard to tell the difference when your face is in a pillow.<br /><br />When you awake, the message scrolled in lipstick on your mirror will most assuredly be an offer from your stalker to have you file a restraining order against him. Call him immediately and protest vehemently. To solidify his resolve, you should make him insist at least three times before reluctantly accepting his selfless offer.<strong><br /><br />Method 3: The Reversal</strong><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /></span>If your stalker is neither stupid nor self-destructive, you may be forced to use The Reversal. This method is a bit tricky, and involves breaking some federal laws but, like the crane kick from The Karate Kid, when executed correctly, there is no defense against it.<br /><br />See, an interesting thing about restraining orders is that they work both ways. If you obtain a restraining order against your stalker, it not only prohibits him from coming near you, but also you from going near him. So, regardless of who filed it, you both need to keep away from each other.<br /><br />To start The Reversal, you'll need to become a master of trans-gender disguise. This may sound daunting, but don't worry, there's plenty of reference material out there. Whenever you're out with friends and it's your turn to pick a movie, choose Tootsie, or Yentl, or Big Mamma's House, or Boys Don't Cry, or Mrs. Doubtfire, or Just One of the Guys or... well, there are a lot of choices.<br /><br />Once you have the technique down, you'll need to disguise yourself as your stalker. You'll obviously need to do this in a place that is not under surveillance by your stalker. Try to lose him in a busy mall, and then slip into a utility closet.<br /><br />Now you'll need some legal documents that identify you as your stalker. You may be tempted to try to steal your stalker's wallet, but don't. Too risky. Instead, visit your local counterfeit artist and commission a set of legal documents. The cost is usually around $300 for a full set, but you may be able to get a discount if you ask only for a driver's license. If you don't know who your local counterfeit artist is, go downtown and ask for a guy named Slick. If you find somebody named Slick, he will almost assuredly either be a counterfeiter himself, or know where to find one.<br /><br />With identification in hand, visit your courthouse and file a restraining order against yourself (your <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">actual</span> self) in the name of your stalker. Cite all sorts of disturbing behavior, but nothing strictly illegal - you don't want to get yourself arrested.<br /><br />After completing the restraining order, find a discreet place in the courthouse to change back into your normal clothes, then call the police. In your best man voice say, "Hi, I just got a restraining order against my psycho ex-girlfriend and I think she's on her way over here. I'm afraid she's going to do something crazy." Then, hop in your car and head to your stalker's house.<br /><br />The police should be waiting for you outside his home. Try to go in anyway. When they forcibly remove you from the premises, scream as loud as you can, "WHAT!! YOU GOT A RESTRAINING ORDER AGAINST ME??!! I'M GOING TO BOIL YOUR HAMSTER!!!"<br /><br />He'll be left confused, and unable to approach you, but his feelings will not be hurt. Also, a surprising number of stalkers are schizophrenic, so he may just blame himself.T. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195267259890145180.post-43788699751422309462011-10-26T15:02:00.011-06:002012-11-05T08:35:33.857-07:00Jack and Jill - A Halloween Tale<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYZ82pl6YtY3bmv9GHqkyOpHUT21d2cWNNULYWZRnSjznXoI53j3HRfpLYlu0-0NsuAPaDnb_uCZ6Ht4IIamNKXJKwb__FKwUKnKE3wGjeX18OYkdpX958Rznyf0htHNo72Df8V8rPdj0p/s1600/well.png"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 222px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668015342556125490" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYZ82pl6YtY3bmv9GHqkyOpHUT21d2cWNNULYWZRnSjznXoI53j3HRfpLYlu0-0NsuAPaDnb_uCZ6Ht4IIamNKXJKwb__FKwUKnKE3wGjeX18OYkdpX958Rznyf0htHNo72Df8V8rPdj0p/s320/well.png" /></a>Jill's father was a bastard. Jack sat, perched in the ancient elm tree, and seethed as he watched the leathery old coot shaking a gnarled fist threateningly at Jill as he berated her. Even from this distance, Jack could see Jill's face. She shot a worried glance towards the tree. Likely she knew that Jack was watching her father's outburst and was inwardly preparing her excuses for the man. She was irrationally defensive of his tyrannical behavior.<br /><br />Of late, Jack spent a lot of time in this tree. Its thick foliage kept him hidden from onlookers beneath, but from this vantage, aloft in its branches, Jack was easily able to survey the surrounding area. The tree was situated on the far side of the prairie, East of Jill's farmhouse. It grew at the base of Water Hill, which was thusly named for the well which sat atop it.<br /><br />That well was somewhat of a legend in these parts. Every decent farmer knew that the best place to dig a well was at the lowest point available. Yet, here in Colby County, the best well within a 12 mile radius was audaciously situated at the apex of the tallest hill in said area. Old Hank said it wasn't a well at all, but a spring that someone had made to look like a well with a stone facade. But Old Hank also picked the fleas out of his beard and ate them.<br /><br />Jill was now making her way across the prairie towards the hill, holding a large pale made of faded wooden slats bound together by two copper bands. Her jackass of a father consumed nearly as much water as he did whiskey, which is why Jack had been spending so many of his afternoons in this tree. At least two, sometimes three or four times a day, the old man sent Jill to fetch water from the well. Since her father's opinion of Jack was nearly as dour as Jack's was of her father, visiting Jill at her home was out of the question. So it was only these brief water errands each day that afforded Jack the opportunity to steal a few moments with the girl he ached to be with always.<br /><br />"Jack... are you up there?" Jill was nearing the tree and squinting into the shaded branches.<br /><br />"Why do you put up with that man?" Jack asked as he bent himself in half over a branch and somersaulted out of the tree. "Let's run away together and leave him to fetch his own water."<br /><br />She rolled her eyes, but was smiling at the sight of him. "You know I can't do that. He's my father."<br /><br />"No father could treat his own daughter the way that man treats you." Jack fell in beside Jill and took the large pale from her. "I think he might actually be an ogre who kidnapped you at birth."<br /><br />"Stop that." She said, slapping his shoulder playfully. "You've only seen his bad side." Then more seriously, "I've told you. He wasn't this way before mother died."<br /><br />"Look, " Jack said, "you loved her too, but her death didn't turn you into the worst version of yourself. You need to stop making excuses for him."<br /><br />"Jack, you don't understand... he needs me."<br /><br />"Tell you what, " Jack said with a grin, "we'll race up to the top of the hill. If I get there first, we drop this pale in the well and run away together right now. If you beat me, I'll never say another bad word about him."<br /><br />"Wouldn't be fair." She replied, "Even holding that pail, you're faster than me, and you know it."<br /><br />"All right, I'll give you a ten second head start." Jack doubted that Jill would ever actually do something so irresponsible and spontaneous as to leave everything and set out to start a new life, but he was unable to bat down the spark of hope that had suddenly ignited itself somewhere in the back of his throat.<br /><br />Jill was running up the hill. Fast. Jack was so shocked he almost forgot to start counting. "One Mississippi..." he said out loud to keep himself honest. She was nearly half way up the hill when Jack finished his tenth Mississippi, and he started to run.<br /><br />He ran harder than he had ever run before. He ran as if his life depended on it, and he realized that, in a very real way, it did. He thought of the bruises on Jill's arms, and he ran faster. He thought of being chased at gunpoint off of Jill's porch, and he ran faster. He thought of a nine year old girl, forced to go alone to her own mother's funeral while her father lay unconscious in a saloon, and he ran faster.<br /><br />When Jack's foot found the sink hole, the world slowed. A large rock on the ground in front of him came towards his face and he instinctively twisted. The thing crashed into the back of his head with a sickening crunch and Jack landed roughly on his back. The blue sky above him blinked off and on a few times before returning as a dull grey. Jack tried to focus his eyes. Everything around him looked backward. Like those backward film panels that came out of Mr. Goodfellow's camera before he developed them into photographs. Irrationally, Jack wondered if Mr. Goodfellow was there, taking a picture. But no, he would have smelled the smoke from the flash powder.<br /><br />As if through water, he could hear a muffled screaming sound. He turned his head enough to see a frantic Jill running fuzzily down the hill toward him. She lost her footing as she neared and tumbled to a stop by his side.<br /><br />"Oh no Jack, " Jill sobbed, "are you hurt badly?" Her face paled when she saw the blood pooling at his shoulder. Gingerly, she turned his head and probed at his wound with her fingers. She gasped as her fingers sunk easily into flesh where bone should have resisted her.<br /><br />"It's my crown." Jack said hoarsely, "I think it's shattered."<br /><br />"I'll... I'll get help."<br /><br />Jack managed to grab her wrist weakly. "Don't go. It's too late." He tried to focus his eyes on her. He knew he was dying and wanted to burn the clear image of her face into his mind forever. "Jill, I'll never stop loving you."<br /><br />Jack stopped loving Jill. He stood above her as she sobbed helplessly over his lifeless body. He felt... weird. He remembered loving Jill only seconds earlier, but couldn't recall exactly how. Perhaps, he thought, love really did exist in the heart. He no longer had a heart.<br /><br />He wondered idly if Jill's father would be happy about all this and, as he thought it, he burned. Had he blood, it would have boiled. Wherever hate lived, he realized, it wasn't in the heart.<br /><br />Jack turned and began floating towards Jill's home. He knew he no longer had love. Perhaps he would never have peace, or joy. But he would have pleasure. Haunting Jill's father.T. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195267259890145180.post-86203061912898037542011-10-17T14:46:00.007-06:002011-10-18T08:34:45.743-06:00An Attitude of Platitude<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9DKDUyCtaPkM8UY3Vw2MZ_BsImt3N9VrwkfcyoI7dTJq7_nwNuntSdqUrFUmt5GM2ydCVBJzRBMb4lTV69l7ixZgCI2Atj_hqB80D1geQQt1NFG9U5YDFXwXDeUmtsLew6-tPJPm7yQ2R/s1600/fortune-cookie.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 174px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664833019523751314" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9DKDUyCtaPkM8UY3Vw2MZ_BsImt3N9VrwkfcyoI7dTJq7_nwNuntSdqUrFUmt5GM2ydCVBJzRBMb4lTV69l7ixZgCI2Atj_hqB80D1geQQt1NFG9U5YDFXwXDeUmtsLew6-tPJPm7yQ2R/s320/fortune-cookie.jpg" /></a>In the song, "The Fly" by U2, there's a lyric that my forthcoming thoughts exemplify. "Every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief. All kill their inspiration and sing about their grief."<br /><br />I'm about to start an incohesive rant about trivial things using the most vitriolic and verbose prose that I can muster. I do this knowing full well that it is easier to criticize than to create. That is, in fact, the point. I'm trying to follow the age-old, "If you don't have anything nice to say, lambast an innocent bystander" rule.<br /><br />I'll start with the most callous of my criticisms. It relates to a quip I saw recently on a bumper sticker that read, "Don't Drive Faster than Your Guardian Angel Can Fly!"<br /><br />Ok, so how fast is that exactly? I'm no expert on guardian angels, but I'm pretty sure any one of them could outpace my Corolla on a straightaway. Not that he'd need to. What kind of a guardian angel would watch me get into the driver's seat of my car and not realize I might be planning on going somewhere? Maybe the bumper sticker should say, "Don't Start Driving Until Your Guardian Angel Has Had a Chance to Grab Shotgun!"<br /><br />I don't know, maybe there really is some sort of transdimensional barrier that keeps guardian angels from entering vehicles, and maybe they do have a maximum flying velocity that happens to correspond with a reasonable highway speed. But if that's the case, a more helpful message would be, "Just FYI, If You Ever Get in a Plane, You're Screwed."<br /><br />Maybe you're sitting a little uncomfortably in your chair right now, wondering how I've come to this dark and cynical place in my life. I don't know, but while I'm here, I may as well move on to cookies.<br /><br />Suppose you're at a carnival. You see a brightly colored tent beneath a painted wooden sign which reads, "Madame Mystique's Fortune Telling $5". You realize that you would indeed like your fortune told, so you enter the tent. After handing over your hard-earned money to the Gypsy-esque Madame Mystique, she gazes into her smoke-filled crystal ball for several tense minutes and then gravely pronounces, "You have an infectious smile."<br /><br />"Uhh...Thank you." you say, "So, what does my future hold?".<br /><br />"Another reading will be five dollars." she replies.<br /><br />You grind your teeth and wonder if punching Madame Mystique square in the nose would be worth the resultant curse upon your progeny. You decide it wouldn't, so instead leave in a huff and ultimately take your anger out on a well-intentioned bumper sticker you see while driving home.<br /><br />The fortune cookie at the end of a Chinese dinner is more than just dessert. It represents hope, dreams and destiny. By definition it should be a glimmer of light cast into the unseen darkness of the future. How infuriating is it then to break into one of these little hope-holders only to find a generic statement about your positive attitude? For the love of all that is decent and good in this world, they're not called compliment cookies!<br /><br />Rrrgh. Now I've gotten myself so worked up about fortune cookies that I can't think of anything else to rant about.<br /><br />Oh yeah! Greasy politicians that never make good on their campaign promises. I mean, how hard is it to... you know what, never mind. I'm sure they're doing their best.T. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195267259890145180.post-47283521649841485762011-09-22T11:03:00.002-06:002011-09-22T11:11:58.845-06:002 of 6. Sucka!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrI1dIaSOq5Uqt1hu5Tr21xFZ2QYSOUQZMazlb7Lj0sbrZv1g-jdh9fL5Amgnmi1wJ3Joce_86X2JP3ZoI85hoaZYSKR-y3cctZSGf2PIfAgZbmjNOjjVLEHSO_g4DU18qR_5bVFNmAFC4/s1600/Gangster.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 220px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655231068058209298" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrI1dIaSOq5Uqt1hu5Tr21xFZ2QYSOUQZMazlb7Lj0sbrZv1g-jdh9fL5Amgnmi1wJ3Joce_86X2JP3ZoI85hoaZYSKR-y3cctZSGf2PIfAgZbmjNOjjVLEHSO_g4DU18qR_5bVFNmAFC4/s320/Gangster.jpg" /></a>My previous blog post was in January. It is now September. Standard blog protocol dictates this post begin with a self-abasing statement about being a crappy blogger and a commitment to be better in the future.<br /><br />Well, I just can't do that. For one thing, I'm not a crappy blogger. I'm a freaking brilliant blogger. If my adoring fans have to wait 8 months between installments, so be it. The posts will just be that much sweeter for the anticipation. Two years passed between the 6th and 7th Harry Potter books, yet J.K. Rowling did not begin the The Deathly Hallows with, "Whoa, I guess it's been a while. Sorry I'm such a flake."<br /><br />As for my future blogging performance, I actually will make a commitment. Looking at my blog archive, I noticed a pattern. In 2008 I had nine posts, eight in 2009, and seven in 2010. There's a pattern there that needs to be preserved. This will be my second post of 2011. I hereby commit to deliver no more or less than four additional posts before 2012 bringing the 2011 count to six.<br /><br />"But wait!" you say, "Aren't you running the risk of posting just for the sake of posting? Won't focusing on the numbers deprive the posts their personality?"<br /><br />To this I say phooey. If a newlywed man and woman decide they want three children in their family, is not each one of those three children a number? Does arbitrarily specifying a final count somehow steal the personalities from the individual children within that count? Of course not. The motivation behind the creation of a child is irrelevant. Once here, each child becomes his own entity. Speaking for himself. Brightening or darkening the world by simply being who he is. Thus it is with my blog posts.<br /><br />So here we are, six paragraphs into this post and my only subjects have been me, my blog, my blogging abilities, and this post itself. Rap fans will appreciate the convention.<br /><br />Talk smack if you like, but my future is bright. I'll be blogging past the end of days and into the night.T. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195267259890145180.post-70242277192901286302011-01-10T15:09:00.014-07:002020-02-13T10:50:53.094-07:00The Secret Healing Powers of the Smiley Emoticon<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1rcXkhkzLB5Y8mcLE4zS0IFFpQ8DTXFkdHOBJjQs7DZSXl-6EilZWl1JpzsYWDMtyOwvm9Za40Z9wPGtZ1wS70zQp9UZfBsFHdl1IqfFyJ8ZA5cLBTeut0WUENsS1CEEFcRjybB3FQl9_/s1600/prescriptionbottle.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560786527159140658" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1rcXkhkzLB5Y8mcLE4zS0IFFpQ8DTXFkdHOBJjQs7DZSXl-6EilZWl1JpzsYWDMtyOwvm9Za40Z9wPGtZ1wS70zQp9UZfBsFHdl1IqfFyJ8ZA5cLBTeut0WUENsS1CEEFcRjybB3FQl9_/s320/prescriptionbottle.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 300px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 199px;" /></a><span style="color: red;">WARNING!!!</span> If you like feeling sick, do not read this article. If you enjoy being overweight, do not read this article. If you constantly have so much energy that you want to burst into song for the sheer joy of it, well, then you've probably already read this article.<br />
<div>
<br />
Folks, the executives in the medical industry have invested tens of trillions of dollars to keep hidden the secret I'm about to reveal. Why? Because they hate you! It's not even about the money. They are just sadistic, power-hungry vampires that feed on your sickness and rejoice in your misery. Plus they worship Satan.<br />
<br />
What if I were to tell you, that by doing one simple thing, you could soon be rid of literally all that ails you? What If I were to tell you that, in just 15 seconds per day, you could not only become the healthiest version of yourself, but you might actually gain super powers?<br />
<br />
Already, I can sense your skepticism. You're thinking to yourself, "Sure, another fad diet - or vitamin - or South American berry used for centuries by Incan witch doctors to cure shortness".<br />
<br />
Believe me, I understand your hesitance. How could there be one single all-encompassing cure for everything from acne to decapitation - a proverbial "fountain of youth" that has eluded every person on this planet for millennia? I mean, what are the odds right?<br />
<br />
I had those same thoughts and feelings, until I learned that this cure is actually based in science!<br />
<br />
See, the human body is made up of hundreds upon hundreds of tiny particles called atoms. When we get sick, or grow old, or lose a limb, the atoms that make up our body become configured differently than when we were healthy, young, and fully-intact. If, say, you were to use an electron microscope to compare the arrangement of atoms in the body of Olympic athlete Michael Phelps with those found in the mortal remains of King Tutankhamen, you would find marked differences.<br />
<br />
So now you're thinking, "OK, my atoms are all screwed up, but what can I do about it?"<br />
<br />
Well, first off, you won't find the answer in some high-priced drug developed by the pharmaceutical industry to pad the pockets of it's CEOs. No, taking pills won't fix your atoms. The only way to get your atoms to reorganize in a beneficial way is by staring at a smiley emoticon for 15 seconds each day.<br />
<br />
How does it work? It's simple. Like the atoms in your body, the characters on a keyboard are building blocks. A right parenthesis symbol by itself is fairly meaningless, as is an unaffiliated colon. However, put the two together correctly and you have a simple and pure representation of happiness.<br />
<br />
When you stare at a correctly constructed smiley emoticon, your brain recognizes the benefits of properly configured base components and begins to search out and rearrange incorrectly organized atoms in your own body.<br />
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But don't take my word for it. In just moments you can begin to experience the benefits of this revolutionary cure for yourself. Simply stare at the emoticon below for 15 seconds and then, based on your results, read the corresponding explanation of what has happened within your body.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 400%;">:)</span><br />
<br /></div>
<br />
<div>
Now, how do you feel?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><strong>I feel better already!</strong></span><br />
Great! This is to be expected. Your brain has begun the process of correctly configuring your atoms.<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: 130%;">I feel worse!</span></strong><br />
Great! This is to be expected. Your atoms have been misaligned for so long that dust has gathered on them and they must go through a cleansing process before they can be arranged properly. This cleansing causes your symptoms to worsen, but rest assured knowing you will soon be healthier than ever.<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: 130%;">I feel exactly the same!</span></strong><br />
Great! This is to be expected. The fact that your symptoms have remained consistent proves that you were about to take a turn for the worse. Had you not taken the first steps of atom correction now... well, let's just say it's a good thing you did.<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: 130%;">I don't feel better, worse, or the same!</span></strong><br />
Double great! Your atoms have become so perfectly aligned that you are now able to perceive a condition within yourself that can only exist on an alternate plane of reality.<br />
<br /></div>
T. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195267259890145180.post-89456946020879335972010-12-07T08:20:00.011-07:002012-02-16T16:28:37.212-07:00Lemmings<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgklBkMYEvrYfucYUqzDZ5SglORNxbgdxjHfcpDEO7JhuOD8LJtJ0ONho3fnMkcsjfMa0ctIXPIFhcbCqElaS4F2mr6q4w36cnNRlbRTXOCbFevydCnj36_woELySnfdpZ8wFnCDFxm5sVU/s1600/lemmings.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 224px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 280px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548013944438159570" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgklBkMYEvrYfucYUqzDZ5SglORNxbgdxjHfcpDEO7JhuOD8LJtJ0ONho3fnMkcsjfMa0ctIXPIFhcbCqElaS4F2mr6q4w36cnNRlbRTXOCbFevydCnj36_woELySnfdpZ8wFnCDFxm5sVU/s320/lemmings.jpg" border="0" /></a>When I discussed with my wife the topic I had in mind for this blog post, she told me I might come off as sounding a bit pedantic - to which I responded, "Have you read my blog? Pedantic is kind of my thing." Still, knowing that she <em>has</em> read my blog and, moreover, actually knows <em>me</em>; I'm lead to suspect that "a bit pedantic" may have been a euphemism for "wildly self indulgent and anal to the point of cruelty". Now, chances are, if you're reading this at all, you're a very near relative or friend of mine, and a single blog post, no matter how painful, will not create an unbridgeable schism in our relationship. However, if you're on the fence about me, you may want to skip this one.<br /><br />Yesterday, I saw an image floating around on the Internet that gave me pause. Incidentally, when I say I saw an image "floating around", I really mean my web browser interpreted a file which was complied using the JPEG standard - as defined in RFC 1341 - that was stored on at least one of millions of interconnected computers and made publicly available via the HTTP protocol. (I just got pedantic goose bumps.)<br /><br />Anyway, the image I saw was a depiction of a bumper sticker that stated, "Lemmings for Obama 2008". As I'm sure was the intention of the bumper sticker's author, the message got me thinking. However, it was not about Obama's proponents, but about actual lemmings. I realized, for the first time, that the idea of an entire species being genetically inclined to commit suicide en masse in order to control its own population was a bit hard to swallow - or rather, there was a disparity between that notion and my perception of rationality.<br /><br />I decided to do some research on lemmings and, with surprisingly little effort, discovered that, in fact, lemmings are NOT innately suicidal at all. Not only do they not blindly follow each other over cliffs to their deaths, they show the same desire for self preservation as does every other species of animal on the planet.<br /><br />Suddenly I was filled with the sort of holier-than-thou giddiness that only the truly self important can attain. Why? Because I enjoy irony nearly as much as I do pedanticism. See, lemmings are used as a metaphor to portray people who unquestioningly go along with an incorrect but popular opinion, but, in itself, the idea that lemmings unquestioningly follow each other is an opinion which is popular but incorrect. So, essentially, those who accuse others of being lemmings are, themselves, in fact... well, I suppose I can't call them lemmings - but whatever they are, it isn't as clever as me.T. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195267259890145180.post-20168325466875189862010-11-24T09:46:00.004-07:002012-11-05T08:35:33.854-07:00Happy Thanksgetting!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI8xQu1cNLf541Abi-lKMxcqBAdl4d2pKzD7y8cO8Vei2LRGtpWWwWzrMHQ_Th-OjQoznEirHNWVRenmfcUFmU3SOFVo5OWRYE9KKCE_1GX4ANKda_WYMLdRwO1ybuZ6bHQRaG1r40wBm1/s1600/thanksgiving.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 216px; float: left; height: 320px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543231282551137938" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI8xQu1cNLf541Abi-lKMxcqBAdl4d2pKzD7y8cO8Vei2LRGtpWWwWzrMHQ_Th-OjQoznEirHNWVRenmfcUFmU3SOFVo5OWRYE9KKCE_1GX4ANKda_WYMLdRwO1ybuZ6bHQRaG1r40wBm1/s320/thanksgiving.jpg" border="0" /></a>Thanksgiving is the most ironic of holidays. The fact that we gather together once a year to demonstrate our thanks by eating a ton of food makes me wonder if the original name for the holiday included air quotes.<br /><br />Don't get me wrong, I'm a huge fan - It's just that the physics of the thing don't quite click with me. First, we're presumably given something for which we are to be grateful - then, we show our gratitude by treating ourselves to roasted turkey, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie, etc. It just doesn't seem very karma-friendly to me.<br /><br />But, who am I to question a good thing. I mean, Thanksgiving is the epitome of a win-win situation. Far be it from me to disparage a truly American pastime. In fact, I think we should keep the spirit of Thanksgiving with us throughout the entire year.<br /><br />A stranger lets you cut in front of him in line at the grocery store? Show your appreciation by buying yourself a candy bar. Your neighbor unexpectedly shovels your walk? Don't stay indebted, get yourself right over to Krispy Kreme and eat three doughnuts (four if you have a big driveway).<br /><br />Now you're probably thinking, "Wait! If I show my gratitude throughout the whole year, will I have anything left to be thankful for come the actual Thanksgiving holiday?" The answer is, obviously, who cares? Haven't you ever heard of paying it forward? Suppose someone gives you a kidney in 20 years. Do you think you're going to be able to show thanks for something that generous by just eating a bowl of ice cream? No, you'll need years of gluttony to properly compensate for that level of kindness. Better to start saying thanks now so as not to find yourself in an awkward situation later.T. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195267259890145180.post-90652599827689846932010-08-28T17:29:00.003-06:002012-11-05T08:39:54.691-07:00How Things Aren't... The 1st Comic<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5FNnYgPRoq57XzToh52AiSdHkZ2CtNQ3UM9LbBhO9kV3R1zjJYjslC9AUuPKgbtME-sESnG_aQxMIoiepSYWDdzz304Ny23gpivhnolG3nIpEJsids3Fu9HYAKBoLvckWr9O7awQSz6sj/s1600/Comic1-1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 158px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5FNnYgPRoq57XzToh52AiSdHkZ2CtNQ3UM9LbBhO9kV3R1zjJYjslC9AUuPKgbtME-sESnG_aQxMIoiepSYWDdzz304Ny23gpivhnolG3nIpEJsids3Fu9HYAKBoLvckWr9O7awQSz6sj/s320/Comic1-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510607180445545714" /></a>T. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195267259890145180.post-25723871652217110052010-08-02T13:28:00.013-06:002012-11-05T08:45:14.973-07:00So Much Negativity<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqArmkFdWY2bqJDYzFr-mHvm9ttVWBj2E9Oz1IK8m4CB_kz7qqEJLbh6a9_eZdb8Azbp98xGTnF1ZCG2MMC5YaW7rX-XwCD92M1fXc3N0Smbo-QSMkzTJsLApqxx1H5sFd21-nJVcx3b1q/s1600/negative.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 224px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501194710493475442" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqArmkFdWY2bqJDYzFr-mHvm9ttVWBj2E9Oz1IK8m4CB_kz7qqEJLbh6a9_eZdb8Azbp98xGTnF1ZCG2MMC5YaW7rX-XwCD92M1fXc3N0Smbo-QSMkzTJsLApqxx1H5sFd21-nJVcx3b1q/s320/negative.jpg" /></a>Grammatically speaking, a double negative is a faux pas. You should obviously never commit a grammatical faux pas. However, in French, "faux" means "false", which has a negative connotation; never is also negative, so it's technically more correct to say, "You should always commit a pas." But, I shouldn't digress... or rather, I <em>should</em> gress.<br /><br />While the "double negative" rule has been long standing and is generally undisputed... i mean <em>puted</em>, the origins of the rule itself are undisclosed... rrrgh... closed. By that, I mean to imply that the rule's root <em>is </em>actually known to a select few, and not undiscovered (I give up), as some have claimed.<br /><br />I hesitate to use the word, "conspiracy", but only because the phrase, "I hesitate to..." is a worn out, euphemistic conversational device that I hesitate to... crap.<br /><br />Anyway, why are we not allowed to use double negatives? If you want my opinion, it's because the grammarians of yore were either presumptuous snobs or communists. Either they honestly didn't believe our little brains could handle the back and forth switcherydoos of multiple negatives, or they were deliberately trying to make us stupider... uhh... more stupid - presumably to make the gradual introduction of their communist ideals less noticeable. Either way, I'm offended.<br /><br />If someone wants to say something like, "I don't not want to never leave.", he should be allowed to do it without everyone in the room shrieking, "AHHHHH DOUBLE NEGATIVE!!" (Especially since it was a triple negative), and I should be given the opportunity to puzzle through all those negatives to figure out whether he actually wants to stay or go.<br /><br />Maybe it's the programmer in me, but I think multiple negatives are fairly straightforward. Off - on - off - on... anyone able to count can get to the bottom of them. If something has to be banned from proper English, it should be vague and/or misleading statements. Phrases like, "We're looking into it" should be absolutely forbidden. The next time you hear that sentence from a customer service representative, make sure you have him define his pronouns. "We" could be him and his buddy Eugene, and "It" could be a monkey's armpit.<br /><br />So I say down with rationing out our negatives like they're the final drops of water in a desert canteen. We're certainly not never going to not run out of them, so let's stop not using them.T. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195267259890145180.post-37995813422915782222010-07-27T10:17:00.015-06:002021-09-30T15:07:26.124-06:00Send Out the Clowns<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMtzVummZFv5WqET3Xz-KRkB-2EMVAoZut7JxA2xt_qEbCAmbVkmfZR_NwNxc8s5BXEuzEVfdQYmWX4NKhZxbfVgPoJAYYCd-RZo4LnLZ6w1GtgvhOoUn5j4UH0b_q0ykyEPCI0kk7b-lM/s1600/clown.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498669606413336002" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMtzVummZFv5WqET3Xz-KRkB-2EMVAoZut7JxA2xt_qEbCAmbVkmfZR_NwNxc8s5BXEuzEVfdQYmWX4NKhZxbfVgPoJAYYCd-RZo4LnLZ6w1GtgvhOoUn5j4UH0b_q0ykyEPCI0kk7b-lM/s320/clown.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 259px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 181px;" /></a>Why do we still have clowns? From what I can gather, they are just a vestige from the middle ages; a time when an autocrat could sit on his throne and demand to be amused by a starkly painted commoner acting like an imbecile. <div><br /></div><div>Of all the things that could have persisted from that era, why clowns? Why not heralds, or thatchers... or even gigantic flagons of ale? </div><div><br /></div><div>Well, in the case of heralds and thatchers, it's simple. They're not needed. Nobody has a thatched roof these days, and people rarely require someone prancing about in front of them announcing their arrival. As for gigantic flagons of ale, who knows, maybe the 64oz Super Big Gulp is a descendent.
</div><div><br /></div><div>But why clowns? Do we still need them? Is there anyone out there that honestly thinks they're entertaining or funny? I don't think so. In fact, a disturbingly large number of people are actually <em>afraid</em> of clowns! And I'm not just talking about reclusive weirdos who think their fingers are cheese. These are normal, well-adjusted, hard-working, average-looking people that jump out of their skins at the mere mention of a clown. And for some reason, society is okay with that.
</div><div><br /></div><div>There's a reason you'll never hear about a person with a phobia of sitcoms. Sitcoms are there for entertainment, and entertainment should not freak people out. At its worst a sitcom may be cliché, or maybe even mildly offensive, but you'll never see a sitcom starring as the antagonist in a horror flick. </div><div><br /></div><div>To draw a parallel, clowns are to the middle ages what alligators are to the Jurassic period. They give us a glimpse into a world long dead and, from a purely academic perspective, are an interesting object of study. But they shouldn't be allowed to roam freely among us, and you certainly wouldn't want your children anywhere near one.</div>T. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195267259890145180.post-26795815990376960292010-05-18T13:15:00.022-06:002012-11-05T08:36:13.563-07:00Pheidippides: Behind the Music<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiULJ0jo4aEGkS5jEQMqh-ehnE5MtJ0NB123SseaJ7g49wM7t6LEqcaze1g10FTFr0saZ61sSzebkwaPZkcQXOcC5qLhTT8gys-pD8cyOcklc4pbEQ9LPc03vsSOIF7sFS10aKKO8na_HnO/s1600/Pheidippides.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 229px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 246px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472745190949614306" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiULJ0jo4aEGkS5jEQMqh-ehnE5MtJ0NB123SseaJ7g49wM7t6LEqcaze1g10FTFr0saZ61sSzebkwaPZkcQXOcC5qLhTT8gys-pD8cyOcklc4pbEQ9LPc03vsSOIF7sFS10aKKO8na_HnO/s320/Pheidippides.jpg" /></a>According to legend, the origins of the marathon race can be traced to the ancient battle of Marathon in Greece (490 B.C.). In this battle, the Persians were defeated by the Greeks. As the story goes, Pheidippides, a Greek messenger, was sent from Marathon to Athens to announce the victory. He ran the entire distance (26.2 miles) without stopping and promptly died after proclaiming to the assembly, "We have won!".<br /><br />The validity of this account has been widely disputed among historians due to differing narratives from various sources. Some records mention a runner named Philippides (instead of Pheidippides). Others claim that the whole army marched rapidly to Athens, not just one messenger.<br /><br />Fortunately, speculations over the details of the first marathon can now be quelled. Pheidippides' journals have been discovered and, by wild chance, have fallen into my hands. I'm going to paraphrase his personal account below. I would do more than paraphrase, but it's all written in Greek, which I don't understand per se. My interpretation is based mostly on the look and feel of his handwriting.<br /><br />About a year before the Battle of Marathon, Pheidippides was 60 pounds overweight. "I'm pathetic", he said to himself as he stared at the scale one morning. "How could I have let myself get this fat?"<br /><br />He resolved to get more fit, and decided the best way to do it would be to get a side job as a messenger. He started off easy - only delivering messages that were a mile or so from his home, but gradually he worked up to longer distances. His sister, who had been a long time messenger, invited him to deliver a couple of messages that were 5 and 10 kilometers away, and although he was a bit slow, he delivered the messages successfully.<br /><br />After approximately six months of delivering messages, Pheidippides was feeling pretty good about himself. He had lost his excess weight, and was able to deliver several 5 to 10K messages each week. He decided to set his sights on something bigger. He had heard about the big battle of Marathon that was going to take place in half a year, and on a whim signed up to deliver the victory message from Marathon to Athens. After all, everyone knew the Greeks would win - it was really just an exhibition battle. (The Persians were a bunch of wimps.)<br /><br />Some claimed that Pheidippides was a great patriot for voluteering to deliver the message, but really he just wanted to get the "κϛ.β" sticker for his chariot.<br /><br />Pheidippides' sister agreed to deliver the message with him, and together they began to prepare themselves physically for the mighty task.<br /><br />Pheidippides' wife was supportive, but a little concerned. "Are you sure this is a good time to deliver a message over such a long distance?" She pointed out that he was very busy with his full time job, and that he had recently joined the cathedral choir - which demanded a lot of time.<br /><br />Pheidippides waved away his wife's worries and assured her that preparing to deliver the big message would not impact his life significantly. Pheidippides was wrong.<br /><br />The ensuing months proved to be very difficult. With the hours of training added to his already busy schedule, Pheidippides began to think he had spread himself too thin. Still, he pressed on. He met his sister each Saturday to deliver messages and the distances grew longer and longer.<br /><div></div><br /><div>At long last, the day of the battle approached. Pheidippides and his sister travelled to the battle site with another messenger friend the evening before the victory was to be won. That night they made camp, but slept very little due to the fact that their camp site was right next to a umm... train station.<br /></div><br /><div>They awoke very early and got on one of the many chariots designated to transport all of the messengers to the place from which they would depart. Upon reaching the starting point, they huddled in the brisk morning with thousands of other messengers (apparently the Greeks believed in redundancy) and awaited the explosion that would announce the end of the battle and the beginning of their journey. They heard the blast and began.</div><br /><div>The first several miles passed in relative ease. It was a beautiful morning. The sun was shining, the cool mountain air was refreshing and there was an electricity in the air that was exhilarating. Some messengers were faster than Pheidippides and his sister. Some were slower, but no one cared. They were all just happy to be there delivering such an exciting message.</div><br /><div>When they reached the half-way point, Pheidippides was pleased to see that, according to his GPS enabled wrist mounted sundial, he and his sister had traversed the distance much more quickly than they had expected. He was tired, but still felt strong and confident. They pressed on.</div><br /><div>As the day progressed, the sun burned away the crisp air of morning and strength began to dwindle. The road stretched endlessly before him, and Pheidippides noticed that the distance between mile markers was growing. He plodded arduously for what seemed like hours only to find seconds had passed. At mile 17 he had a fleeting fear that he might not be able to deliver the message after all. He pushed the thought out of his mind and trudged on.</div><br /><div>He passed mile 20 with a feeling of accomplishment. Never in his life had he delivered a message farther than 20 miles. Every step he took now was a new best for him.</div><br /><div>Pheidippides had heard about "the wall" that messengers encountered when delivering messages over long distances. At mile 22 he began to wonder if he had already hit this wall. He was tired. His muscles screamed and his joints ached. Maybe this was all "the wall" was... It wasn't. At mile 24 Pheidippides learned what "the wall" was. His body felt like it shut down. Every single step was a battle of will. He wondered what in the hell ever possessed him to deliver this stupid message. </div><br /><div>On and on he struggled. The path opened to a large clearing and Pheidippides was distantly aware of thousands of people cheering all of the messengers on their way. He could see his destination far down the road and it may as well have been on the moon. Every part of him wanted to stop. His hands, feet and head felt as if he had sat on them too long and they had gone to sleep. His vision was a blur and all sound seemed to be filtered through a pool of water. Still he plodded on.. and on.. and on... until finally he stumbled weekly through the entrance to the assembly.</div><br /><div>Relief and exhaustion flooded over him. He shouted triumphantly, "WE HAVE WON!"</div><br /><div>Then he died. </div>T. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195267259890145180.post-47567024177824470022010-04-07T16:14:00.012-06:002010-04-07T18:10:13.330-06:00First We Abhor<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAbkSPjldv9Vsl3hQ9bpCRf8zYSPZa2hCPOvpHF6fzhsJ7lmwut5wVTDGrHy4KM-dJDsHASvteGpyYU12BIDrb3S6buaLLym1juQu-R73GnUF8gir91nxfsJ9VqhyUkPrxrbJGoq-EtxwF/s1600/abhor.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 174px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 209px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457550511642529090" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAbkSPjldv9Vsl3hQ9bpCRf8zYSPZa2hCPOvpHF6fzhsJ7lmwut5wVTDGrHy4KM-dJDsHASvteGpyYU12BIDrb3S6buaLLym1juQu-R73GnUF8gir91nxfsJ9VqhyUkPrxrbJGoq-EtxwF/s320/abhor.jpg" /></a>As the addage goes; first we abhor, then we tolerate, then we embrace. Well, there are a plethora of things that I abhor, and I've decided to skip the whole tolerate stage and just start embracing.<br /><br />To my knowledge, no one has ever attempted to go directly from abhorance to embracing, so the results could be a little unpredictable. I'm hoping it gives me some sort of super power.<br /><br />Firstly, the word plethora makes my skin crawl. Ever since "¡Three Amigos!" hit the big screen in 1986, plethoras upon plethoras of people have added this once obscure word to their vocabularies. Saying plethora makes you sound neither funny nor smart, and warrants a plethora of smackings.<br /><br />Finally, it really irks me when people begin a statement with a word like, "finally" and then continue blathering after the statement is complete. If I'm already listening to you, then I've resigned myself to the ordeal and am prepared to suffer through it - but hinting at a conclusion before you're ready to give one is just cruel.<br /><br />Lastly, "Got Pet Peeves?" I do. when people think they're clever by putting their own spin on a successful ad campaign it really gets my knickers in a twist. Almost as much as the phrase, "knickers in a twist". I mean seriously, "I'm NOT Lovin' It", so "Just DON'T Do It".<br /><br /><img style="WIDTH: 403px; HEIGHT: 129px" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIQPqidQIWwhw_TrJ7QjHXP12JNtSIYWNdXhIfSO0QxOikBHpMVNIfSBotT9BrbaM2WAgyfuVbKqdDJgbCDEMELf-v7rXIWZTLhxc0Bzky_5TsvWqZfaSyGtOawCs7PrA5N-DFXKn94WTC/s1600/papyrus.jpg" width="573" height="161" /><br />As I end, let me just tell you, there are a plethora of additional things that I abhor, but unfortunately I can't tell them to you. Well, I could... but then I'd have to kill you.<br /><br />So, as a parting blow I'll impart to you some wisdom in an hilarious format:<br /><br />Can of soup: $1.39<br />Stainless steel doorknob: $37.99<br />Discovering the fountain of youth and gaining immortality: Priceless<br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">NOT!</span>T. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195267259890145180.post-54491766951218764182009-10-27T06:55:00.002-06:002020-08-17T10:00:24.730-06:00How To Correct Someone's Grammar<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJKvhuYKZMFF-QfHkf7K2tyiKc_6S5LRC50q2appoTVWgiFE952IJnVveGc_Jv9muzp2-BQvXDKHw1h4AnU_bzIOaa9inUQi9EmZHbUHmxyXhFqXgxo3aITG2Dq01bwg_q3yEpK3oKOKFU/s1600-h/snob.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399907178331636562" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJKvhuYKZMFF-QfHkf7K2tyiKc_6S5LRC50q2appoTVWgiFE952IJnVveGc_Jv9muzp2-BQvXDKHw1h4AnU_bzIOaa9inUQi9EmZHbUHmxyXhFqXgxo3aITG2Dq01bwg_q3yEpK3oKOKFU/s320/snob.jpg" style="float: left; height: 204px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 154px;" /></a><strong><span style="font-size: 130%;">How to Correct Someone’s Grammar without Sounding Snobbish:</span></strong>
<div><div>When it comes to knowing stuff, I consider myself an expert. So, on the subject of correcting improper grammar, I can say with full confidence that there is only one way to pull it off without sounding like an insufferable know-it-all. You must be the offender’s English teacher. And no, this can’t be a self-appointed honorary position. If you are a state certified English teacher, and a current student in your classroom uses incorrect grammar in a written assignment, you <em>may</em> be able to correct that student’s grammar without sounding snobbish. In all other circumstances, it is impossible.</div><div><br /></div>
<div>I’m not suggesting that you never correct improper grammar. In fact, I do it quite frequently. Just be aware that, in all cases, you will be resented by the very bumpkins you are trying to help.</div><div><br /></div><div>For those of you that harbor the compulsion to correct the grammatical maladies of others, but prefer not coming off as haughty twits, don’t despair; I have a work-around: </div><div><strong><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="font-size: 130%;">How to Listen to Improper Grammar without Putting a Pencil through your Eardrums:</span></strong> </div><div><strong><br /></strong></div><div><strong>1- Count Words</strong>
Once you have established that the person speaking has no useful information to relate, try counting his words. This is surprisingly difficult and will completely divert your attention from the meaning and context of the words themselves.</div><div><strong><br /></strong></div><div><strong>2- Pretend She’s Foreign
</strong>Even the most anal of grammar snobs can smile indulgently at a foreigner who is butchering the English language. The next time your coworker uses the incorrect form of a verb, just convince yourself that she’s from Yokelstan.</div><div><strong><br /></strong></div><div><strong>3- Pop Quiz</strong>
Fact: Your fifth grade English teacher is concerned about your grammar skills and is hiring professional actors to interact with you. After each conversation, write down all of the errors you were able to identify in cursive on ruled paper using a black pen.</div><div><strong><br /></strong></div><div><strong>4- Shin Kick</strong>
When all else fails, a sharp kick to the shin will usually convert a whole stream of incorrect grammar into a single interjection. Remarkably, the shin kick is far less damaging to a friendship than actual grammar correction.</div></div>T. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195267259890145180.post-74468486248397022372009-10-20T08:00:00.014-06:002012-11-05T08:47:48.687-07:00It's... How To's-Day!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo8nvTrVTbE6TVFny2kkKvffl2SJTW3ygHwAiAZ6Cmm5RAzSb0oXNh1wwbrUJ_8YQf8pJf3RP1C-Ir2M9mANypuN5HXrK7bTra1GVCsAl6ynDiq5LMTe32gcedXy9H-jl1MZ-tba3KNSqK/s1600-h/spicy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394685088450846418" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 154px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 229px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo8nvTrVTbE6TVFny2kkKvffl2SJTW3ygHwAiAZ6Cmm5RAzSb0oXNh1wwbrUJ_8YQf8pJf3RP1C-Ir2M9mANypuN5HXrK7bTra1GVCsAl6ynDiq5LMTe32gcedXy9H-jl1MZ-tba3KNSqK/s320/spicy.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div><div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">How to Eat Spicy Food without Looking Like a Weenie:</span></strong><br />It is human nature (or at least “man” nature) to want the respect and admiration of one’s peers. Depending on social circle, this may be earned by exhibiting an extensive knowledge of politics, or literature. Some laud a quick wit and sharp sense of humor. Still others count athleticism and physical fitness as marks of honor.</div><br /><div>But the ability to eat insanely spicy food, without flinching, is a ubiquitous indicator of coolness that transcends all the sundry spheres, be they social, economic, cultural, or even religious. Walk into a chicken wings establishment with your friends, down a basket of the joint’s most extreme offering with a smile on your face, and you will be forever branded a tough guy.</div><br /><div>So, what of the faint tongued? Are they condemned to eke out a meager existence, cowering in the shadows of those more stout of mouth? Not necessarily.</div><br /><div>The truth is; nobody actually likes those atomic chicken wings, or that center-of-the-sun chili. Sure, there are those that prefer their meals with a little kick, but when it comes to foods that literally require a hazmat suit for transportation, EVERYONE is faking it… so you can too!</div><br /><div>While it may not be easy, by following just a few simple steps and guidelines, anyone can learn the skills necessary to enter the upper echelons of awesomeness. As one who has been a long standing member of the highly exclusive clique of spicy food consumers – and because I am truly a humanitarian at heart – I have taken it upon myself to reveal my secrets to the world:</div><br /><div><strong>1-Understand the Stakes</strong><br />I really can’t stress this enough. When it comes to eating spicy food, there are three classes of people. At the top, of course, are those that can successfully eat spicy food while maintaining an amused, or at least an indifferent, composure. This group comprises approximately 2% of the population. The middle, and largest, group is made up of those that willingly admit to their own inadequacy and decline to eat spicy food. There is no shame in being a member of this group, which encompasses roughly 94% of all humans. The bottom group (about 4% of the population) consists of those who attempt, and fail, to consume spicy food in an acceptable manner (<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gw8bW6b5900" target="_">Exhibit A</a>).<br /><br />Be warned: there is no redemption from the bottom group. No amount of daredevilry and no exhibition of strength can ever blot out the shame of a failed attempt at spicy food. Seriously. You could pull a shark out of the water with your bare hands and chew its head off. It wouldn’t matter. The thing your friends would bring up at your funeral would be the time you ran maniacally around in circles, clawing at your tongue and begging for water.<br /><br />Once you choose to leave the ranks of the middle group and partake of spicy food, you will be forever classed with either the top or the bottom. Don’t gamble with this. If you’re not 100% ready, continue to practice and wait until next time.<br /><br /><strong>2-Practice Alone</strong><br />There is no substitute for practice. The real secret to eating very spicy food is learning how to endure massive amounts of pain without reflecting that pain in your expression.</div><div><br />Get a mirror and watch yourself closely as you eat something spicy. Don’t worry about the things you can’t control, such as watering eyes, running nose, and reddening face (these will be addressed later). Rather, pay attention to your general demeanor. Try smiling while eating, and work on talking naturally without choking. If your eyes tear up so much that you can’t see yourself in the mirror, a camcorder on a tripod may be required.<br /><br /><strong>3-Preemptive Symptoming<br /></strong>There are some physiological signs of vulnerability that no amount of practice can hide. Occasionally, these symptoms can be masked. For instance, if your nose tends to run when you eat spicy food, you might excuse yourself to the restroom and stuff balls of toilet paper up your nose before your meal arrives. Unfortunately, other symptoms, such as watering eyes, face flushing, and coughing fits, are virtually impossible to conceal.<br /><br />For these, I recommend preemptive symptoming. If you try to blame your tears on allergies immediately after you take a bite of something dipped in Dave’s Insanity Sauce, your friends will see right through the guise. If, however, prior to your arrival at the restaurant, you mention you have a cold and make a point of coughing, shaking, and wiping your nose incessantly, your friends will not suspect a thing when you continue the same behavior after eating.<br /><br /><strong>4-Self Talk</strong><br />While in the act of eating spicy food, the effective use of self talk can sometimes be the difference between success and failure. When using self talk, avoid watered down and cliché phrases such as, “You can do it!”, or “Atta boy!” Instead try, “This will not kill me.”, and “two more minutes to infinite glory!”<br /><br />Also, remember that self talk should always be mental. Never actually say the above phrases out loud.<br /><br /><strong>5-Avoidance</strong><br />Whether you succeed or fail in your attempt, you should do all you can to avoid future situations that could afford another opportunity for spicy food eating. If you failed in your first attempt, there is no point in trying again, and being around spicy food will only remind your peers of your defeat. If you succeeded, it is likely that your associates will demand a repeat performance whenever an appropriate menu item is accessible. It is mandated by the CSFE (Coalition of Spicy Food Eaters) that such repeat performances be delivered upon request. Failure to repeat a performance for any reason is grounds for expulsion from the coalition.</div>_______________________________________<br /><div><br />Remember, the glory of being a spicy food eater carries a heavy price tag, but it is one that is well worth paying. If you persevere, you can be counted amongst the elite, and the skills you learn along the way will benefit you throughout your life - especially if you’re ever taken prisoner and tortured for state secrets.</div></div>T. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195267259890145180.post-40654725144473986582009-10-13T15:41:00.010-06:002012-11-05T08:35:33.855-07:00Demon Reborn - A Halloween Tale<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaDlExFY1XNhXg0SdcU3iGNk7PRNPMpnpxQ9HzH4CQcp5lfDSdX9AMWnv3U9AMtzasmivs4jtKLcyLSNn0YuABDXQpNf2XHK1hNXuAyo7fPghNT6vP881HQmBZqn_N4SYdffYNyInd7c3G/s1600-h/Deamon.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392207996525114274" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 257px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaDlExFY1XNhXg0SdcU3iGNk7PRNPMpnpxQ9HzH4CQcp5lfDSdX9AMWnv3U9AMtzasmivs4jtKLcyLSNn0YuABDXQpNf2XHK1hNXuAyo7fPghNT6vP881HQmBZqn_N4SYdffYNyInd7c3G/s320/Deamon.jpg" border="0" /></a>A little background…<br /><div><br />120,000 years ago I was born in the ancient kingdom of Rackhaman. As a boy, I played with my father’s dagger, pretending it was a sword, and found I had a knack for wielding the thing. I spent hours in the communal wheat fields with my little weapon, laying waste to the imaginary foes that raged against me.</div><br /><div>Dahn Bhan, the leader of my township’s battalion, happened upon me one morning while I was thusly engaged. He saw warrior potential in me and, upon learning from my father that I had not yet been indentured, made me his apprentice. I studied the sundry arts of combat with Dahn Bhan for nine years. Under his tutelage I mastered, not only the sword, but every manner of weapon known to man. I became known as Mhal Ngat, or ‘Blessed Deliverer of Obliteration’, for no enemy could stand against me.</div><div><br />On my twenty fourth birthday, Dahn Bhan released me from my apprenticeship and charged me with a formidable task. For centuries my people had been abused and tormented by the demon Shahpikhart, and it became my lot to seek the monster out and destroy him.</div><div><br />For thirteen years I searched fruitlessly, but at last, through a series of dark negotiations with the vilest of creatures, I learned the location of the cursed stone cavity wherein Shahpikhart dwelt. Within days of my discovery, I stood at the blackened entrance of his cave and, without hesitation, shouted my battle challenge.</div><br /><div>From deep within the cavern I heard a guttural growl that shook the earth. My eyes strained into the abyss. Two glowing green eyes slowly took shape as the creature began to emerge from the deep. The emerald eyes darted back and forth as they searched for the source of the challenging call. Finally, they locked on me, and the ground-rumbling growl became a malevolent chuckle.</div><br /><div>“Where is your army human?” His voice was surprisingly languid.</div><br /><div>“I am alone, and am come to vanquish you.” I held his gaze and spoke with confidence.</div><br /><div>“Your flesh will only serve to whet my appetite boy. Many will suffer the consequence of your insolence after I have devoured you, for my hunger is not easily sated.” His grotesque head was now dimly visible as he crept nearer to me from the depths of his putrid hole.</div><br /><div>“Never again will you feast on the flesh of man!” I screamed, and flew at him with the fury of a thousand years of unrequited offences.</div><br /><div>Whether by luck, skill, or intervention of the gods, I danced and weaved through the onslaught of his furious attacks and found myself standing beside his outstretched neck as he craned his head around to begin another barrage of attacks. With one swift and powerful stroke, my sword flew through his neck like the wings of a falcon through a thick fog.</div><br /><div>All four of his knees buckled sideways as his body, bereft of his tainted soul, fell suddenly limp. It was over. Yet, as I turned to leave the cavern, I heard a sickening, gurgled voice from behind me. I turned and looked upon Shahpikhart’s disembodied head, which was still glaring at me with its glowing green eyes.</div><br /><div>“Know this;” the head choked, “though you have broken this body, my spirit will live on forever and will torment you through this and all your lives to come.”</div><br /><div>With that, the eyes went dim and silence filled the lair of the fallen demon.</div><div><br />Upon returning to my village, I was immediately hailed as a hero. Word spread of my deed, and I was eventually named King of the Nine Nations. I lived in peace and luxury, but I was always vigilant. Shahpikhart’s dying threat echoed in my mind throughout the years and I often sought out spirit speakers to learn whether the demon spirit had found a way back to the natural world. Their information was always the same. Though they could sense the soul of Shahpikhart striving to find a portal to this mortal dimension, nothing on earth existed which was evil enough to embody his wicked spirit.</div><br /><div>Now, hundreds of millennia later, Shahpikhart has at last found a host vile enough to house his soul. And, true to his ancient threat, he has returned to torment me. He is raging at me with a new ferocity and a new name. He is now called Shopping Cart, and his crimes against me are not few.</div><br /><div>He has pulled me sharply to the right and to the left, wobbled incessantly, flattened his wheels to induce an annoying thumping effect, squeaked at me, and sometimes even refused to move at all. He is able to possess any shopping cart at will, and jumps quickly from cart to cart as I try helplessly to avoid his wrath. When I see others using problem-free carts, I often wait for them to finish and then quickly grab their carts. Alas, as soon as my fingers touch the thing, Shahpikhart immediately inhabits the new cart and resumes his assaults. In his new form, Shahpikhart is more agile and protected than he has ever been.</div><br /><div>This is not the lament of one defeated, but rather a rallying call to arms. An eon ago, I bested the beast alone, but I cannot repeat the deed. If Shahpikhart is to fall again, all the brave and stout hearted need to act together with a pointed and sure offense. I fear the only path to success is through the utter destruction of every earthly thing that has the capacity of housing his pernicious essence. If each of us can just bring to ruin one shopping cart each time we find ourselves in a market, the world will soon be free, once again, of the demon reborn.</div>T. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195267259890145180.post-90532852456544313542009-09-02T15:28:00.004-06:002012-11-05T08:49:22.468-07:00Step 9<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheVjblTk6AVRlDvzyDMYOqcQldqs3y8cA4xyPvEk_wzv4Ez_oVWneKmaZCsyLpOqiwtiKulu_SwWdvjfX38P_eOqM0B7T7_DhayL-q48Iv8IKonWTJWye-xH4fXSnz9GCOamrWDYKU_WQA/s1600-h/grief.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376985302971086546" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 215px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 259px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheVjblTk6AVRlDvzyDMYOqcQldqs3y8cA4xyPvEk_wzv4Ez_oVWneKmaZCsyLpOqiwtiKulu_SwWdvjfX38P_eOqM0B7T7_DhayL-q48Iv8IKonWTJWye-xH4fXSnz9GCOamrWDYKU_WQA/s320/grief.jpg" border="0" /></a>Yesterday, while on my nightly run, I had an interesting thought.<br /><br />Have you ever noticed that whenever people start trying to live more healthily, they invariably find surreptitious ways to broadcast their new lifestyle to anyone who will listen?<br /><br />People don’t want to be perceived as braggy-pantsed-meglomaniacs, so they won’t come right out and say, “I now work out 5 times a week, I’m training for the Olympics, and I no longer eat red meat, processed sugars, or anything endorsed by Elliot (the kid from E.T.). Rather, they go fishing for acknowledgement by cleverly working not-so-subtle references to their laud-worthy activities into random, unrelated statements:<br /><br />“You’ll never guess who I ran into at the gym this morning”<br />“I’d offer to give you a ride home, but I’ve only got my bicycle today”<br />“I don’t know, when’s a good time for you? I have a 5K next Thursday morning, but my afternoons are usually pretty free”<br />“Stupid pants! They must have expanded in the wash”<br /><br />Now, let me clarify; I’m not talking about people who have been living healthily for years. This observation primarily applies to individuals (like me) that have, until very recently, been pariah to the world of fitness. It’s a condition similar to that of one who (like me) washes the dishes once a quarter and requires copious praise for the mighty feat.<br /><br />Having been, many times, on the receiving end of these clumsily veiled braggings, I know how obnoxious they are. Still, being newly converted to physical vigilance, I feel compelled to participate in the very practice which I know to be so irksome. Yes, I see the eyes rolling, the feet shuffling, the ‘glance-down-at-an-invisible-wristwatch’ing, but I just can’t stop myself. I’m not even sure it’s voluntary. Perhaps a reduced calorie diet deprives nutrients to the part of the brain that regulates social judgment.<br /><br />In any case, I’ve decided to take the advice of the 300 pound bodybuilder I was arm wrestling on my lunch break, and apologize to any of you whom I have bored with conversations woven with allusions to my most recent obsession.<br /><br />Sorry.T. Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15190979007455458301noreply@blogger.com4