You desire to do something epic, something noteworthy, something that society will remember forever, so you've decided to gather a group of your friends, sneak into the zoo, and go blow up a giraffe. The three of you have been planning this for weeks, trying to find the best way to gather the necessary materials without attracting the attention of the Feds. Thermite, for example, is way too obvious, and they'd catch on. Plus, it wouldn't explode the giraffe so much as melt it.
This isn't going to be as easy as you thought it would be. It turns out that you can't just go to your local superstore, and buy TNT. Luckily for you, you have a close buddy who runs a fireworks stand, so that giraffe is totally going to have artillery shells blowing out of his ass.
Early on the appointed morning, you sneak into the zoo. The cameras see you but nobody reacts right away because really, How often does somebody break into the zoo to try to blow up the giraffes? One of your friends will break his leg when he jumps into the pen and misses the tree that he was aiming for. It's about a fifteen foot fall. Really though, it's okay, because he's just the camera guy, and can film the explosion from where he is.
You and your other friend sneak up to the giraffe with the home-made M-One million-billion. There's enough gunpowder in that sucker to restart the Vietnam War. The tough part is getting it on the giraffe. First, you try holding some leaves next to it to see if you can get the giraffe to swallow it. It eats the leaves and ignores the improvised explosive device. Next, you try sticking it up its ass, but for some reason the giraffe isn't okay with that either. Luckily for you, you brought your duct tape. You manage to sneak up close enough to the animal to tape it to its tail. That's going to have to do.
By this time, the zoo park guards have finally noticed you and are beginning to work their way into the pen shouting things like,
"Stop it!"
and
"Get out of there, you stupid idiot!"
The two of you quickly light the fuse, and then walk away in slow motion like you're in a movie or something. At the last second, the tail swings in your direction and the bomb explodes in your faces, peeling the skin off your cheeks and blinding you in one eye.
"Coooooooool."
You say.
You'll look over to your injured friend to see if he got it all on tape, but by then he'll have passed out from internal bleeding and shock.
Now you know.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
What if...Gregorian chanters?
This morning you going to win a contest that you didn't even know you had entered. It was from some unusual soda company that you had never heard of before called Bearoin.
"Feel like a bear, drink Bearoin." Was printed on the label.
You were disappointed and didn't feel all too bearish. You had opened the soda cap, drank your beverage, and thrown the bottle away, failing to notice the small print under the cap stating
"Throw this cap away for a chance to have a choir follow you around all day singing Gregorian chant"
The chanters arrive at your house and start doing their thing right at dawn, waking you to the sound of holy ancient men singing ominously in what could be Latin. When you slowly get out of bed, crack your back, and scratch yourself, everything seems to be moving in slow motion. Everything seems more interesting, more dramatic. You strike a pose while you are brushing your teeth, and raise both of your eyebrows suspiciously as you theatrically devour your Lame-Os (TM).
When you finally finish dressing yourself, you head outside and see them for the first time. There are about twenty of them, dressed in old brown robes.
"Why are you singing?" You say.
"You won a contest."
"Oh. Okay."
You get into your car, and the choir all piles into a tour bus that they had parked in the street next to your house. They roll down their windows and continue to sing while they follow you. Throughout the heavy traffic, the bus manages to stay right behind you the whole way. Every red light, the dramatic music crescendos into a peak frenzy. A guy cuts you off on the road and the choir sings in fortissimo.
When you walk into work, the choir follows you from a distance, still singing. The building security guard attempts to stop them. You explain,
"It's okay, I won a contest."
They all cram into the elevator with you. AS you go up 20 floors, they sing from a low to a high pitch,
"ooooooOOOOOOOAAAAAAAHHHHHH!"
They stand outside of your cubicle and sing as you check your E-mail, as you try to make a phone call to a client, and as you walk over to the water cooler to talk about that one new Tarantino movie you haven't seen yet. Several curious employees will ask you what the deal is with the choir. You will be forced to explain the contest thing to them over and over. By the lunch hour, you'll just resort to telling people to go away.
Your boss walks up to you and attempt to have you get rid of them. You explain that you just don't have the heart, and besides, you won a contest. He threatens you with your job.
Your boss finally tells you to take the day off, to get rid of the choir. They follow you in the bus again. On the way home, you get into a terrible car accident. Your leg bends in ways that it shouldn't, and a scrap of the car's twisted wreckage penetrates just past your right eye socket.
The bus full of chanters don't get out to help you though. Instead, they'll stay on the bus, singing all the more dramatically of your pain. It makes your death solemn, memorable, and special.
The choir will not stay around for your funeral, however, because the prize only lasts for a day.
Now you know.
"Feel like a bear, drink Bearoin." Was printed on the label.
You were disappointed and didn't feel all too bearish. You had opened the soda cap, drank your beverage, and thrown the bottle away, failing to notice the small print under the cap stating
"Throw this cap away for a chance to have a choir follow you around all day singing Gregorian chant"
The chanters arrive at your house and start doing their thing right at dawn, waking you to the sound of holy ancient men singing ominously in what could be Latin. When you slowly get out of bed, crack your back, and scratch yourself, everything seems to be moving in slow motion. Everything seems more interesting, more dramatic. You strike a pose while you are brushing your teeth, and raise both of your eyebrows suspiciously as you theatrically devour your Lame-Os (TM).
When you finally finish dressing yourself, you head outside and see them for the first time. There are about twenty of them, dressed in old brown robes.
"Why are you singing?" You say.
"You won a contest."
"Oh. Okay."
You get into your car, and the choir all piles into a tour bus that they had parked in the street next to your house. They roll down their windows and continue to sing while they follow you. Throughout the heavy traffic, the bus manages to stay right behind you the whole way. Every red light, the dramatic music crescendos into a peak frenzy. A guy cuts you off on the road and the choir sings in fortissimo.
When you walk into work, the choir follows you from a distance, still singing. The building security guard attempts to stop them. You explain,
"It's okay, I won a contest."
They all cram into the elevator with you. AS you go up 20 floors, they sing from a low to a high pitch,
"ooooooOOOOOOOAAAAAAAHHHHHH!"
They stand outside of your cubicle and sing as you check your E-mail, as you try to make a phone call to a client, and as you walk over to the water cooler to talk about that one new Tarantino movie you haven't seen yet. Several curious employees will ask you what the deal is with the choir. You will be forced to explain the contest thing to them over and over. By the lunch hour, you'll just resort to telling people to go away.
Your boss walks up to you and attempt to have you get rid of them. You explain that you just don't have the heart, and besides, you won a contest. He threatens you with your job.
Your boss finally tells you to take the day off, to get rid of the choir. They follow you in the bus again. On the way home, you get into a terrible car accident. Your leg bends in ways that it shouldn't, and a scrap of the car's twisted wreckage penetrates just past your right eye socket.
The bus full of chanters don't get out to help you though. Instead, they'll stay on the bus, singing all the more dramatically of your pain. It makes your death solemn, memorable, and special.
The choir will not stay around for your funeral, however, because the prize only lasts for a day.
Now you know.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Now for something completely different - Trolling the Onion Editorial Staff, Part 1
As you may or may not be aware, it is impossible to get a job as a writer for The Onion. For those of you even considering it, forget about it. Not going to happen. All resumes and cover letters are insta-trashed. The staff writers there are like sith, when one leaves, another immediately fills the void, and the writers who do step in have SHIT TONS of experience.
Due to my amateurish skills at satire, and tiny itty bitty puny resume, I decided I wasn't going to try to get a job writing for The Onion. I decided instead to do the next best thing: troll them. It's been said before that you don't kid a kidder, so I may experience some extreme backlash for this. I might be out-satired. But gosh darn it! I had to, man! I had to! I've decided to write some E-mails playing up to the fact that the onion never responds to it's readership. For one thing, I want to know if they do actually read their vast amounts of E-mail, and I also wanted to know how people with an incredibly well honed, piercing sense of humor respond to the bizarre. Chances are, they'll just ignore the E-mails, but I'm counting on that.
Here's the first E-mail I sent to them, and I'll post an update in about two weeks.
Subject:
To the Editorial Staff of The Onion:
Greetings, my name is Harry Wong, and I am well aware of your reputation of not reading your E-mails, due to the high volume of junk mail and resumes. In fact, I am counting on this.
You see, recently, my late uncle Ted Albatross passed to the other side in the middle of reading your article, "Man Already Knows Everything He Needs To Know About Muslims". He laughed so hard that he had a heart attack and died in his favorite lazyboy. My uncle Ted was quite well off, but nothing gave him more pleasure than opening up one of his many Onion anthologies or going online and reading one of your articles. He was so much a fan of your publication that he decided to leave all of his worldly possessions, including his Ford Coupe and mail-order bride, TinaLisa, to be divided among your on-staff writing team.
Fortunately for me, if the money is not accepted in two weeks, there is a clause that states the money instead will go to the executor of his estate (me).
I am quite confident that you will be far too busy driving around in your fancy Roles Royces and looking at your pretty Rolex watches to notice this single humble little E-mail, so I want to thank you in advance for your generous donation to the me fund. You have two weeks from today to reply to this.
Psh, good luck.
Sincerely,
Harry Wong (future millionaire)
P.S. That Jackie Harvey guy just cracks me up.
Due to my amateurish skills at satire, and tiny itty bitty puny resume, I decided I wasn't going to try to get a job writing for The Onion. I decided instead to do the next best thing: troll them. It's been said before that you don't kid a kidder, so I may experience some extreme backlash for this. I might be out-satired. But gosh darn it! I had to, man! I had to! I've decided to write some E-mails playing up to the fact that the onion never responds to it's readership. For one thing, I want to know if they do actually read their vast amounts of E-mail, and I also wanted to know how people with an incredibly well honed, piercing sense of humor respond to the bizarre. Chances are, they'll just ignore the E-mails, but I'm counting on that.
Here's the first E-mail I sent to them, and I'll post an update in about two weeks.
Subject:
To the Editorial Staff of The Onion:
Greetings, my name is Harry Wong, and I am well aware of your reputation of not reading your E-mails, due to the high volume of junk mail and resumes. In fact, I am counting on this.
You see, recently, my late uncle Ted Albatross passed to the other side in the middle of reading your article, "Man Already Knows Everything He Needs To Know About Muslims". He laughed so hard that he had a heart attack and died in his favorite lazyboy. My uncle Ted was quite well off, but nothing gave him more pleasure than opening up one of his many Onion anthologies or going online and reading one of your articles. He was so much a fan of your publication that he decided to leave all of his worldly possessions, including his Ford Coupe and mail-order bride, TinaLisa, to be divided among your on-staff writing team.
Fortunately for me, if the money is not accepted in two weeks, there is a clause that states the money instead will go to the executor of his estate (me).
I am quite confident that you will be far too busy driving around in your fancy Roles Royces and looking at your pretty Rolex watches to notice this single humble little E-mail, so I want to thank you in advance for your generous donation to the me fund. You have two weeks from today to reply to this.
Psh, good luck.
Sincerely,
Harry Wong (future millionaire)
P.S. That Jackie Harvey guy just cracks me up.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
What if...I'm out of ideas?
There I sit, staring, trying too hard to think.
I must think of an idea, and fast. I must write something brilliant. Think brain think...I have a brilliant reputation to uphold. If I don't write something absolutely amazing, absolutely mind-blowing, everybody will laugh at me, and say I'm washed up even before I'm successful.
Oh wait, here comes something. It's seeping into my brain. Yes. I feel an epiphany any moment now...
"Poop."
My eyes light up as I write the words. It...It's amazing! Top that world. I print off the word "poop" and attempt to sell it at the Louvre museum in Paris, because I'm uneducated enough to believe that that is the only art museum in existence.
Before the curator can even speak a word in Frenchy-babble to me about the sheer brilliance of my work, I demand a specialized payment. I tell the man that I will only accept payment in the form of toy poodles. There's a reason I want that many poodles. You know those ball pit thingies like they have at Chucky Cheese? Well, I always wanted to have one of those, only with poodles instead of balls. Ideally, there would be enough poodles in there that my weight would be evenly distributed amongst them, and no single poodle would be crushed. I mean, it's not like I'm some kind of monster or anything.
But yeah. "Poop"
Comic gold, amiright?
Now I know. (Seriously, I do)
I must think of an idea, and fast. I must write something brilliant. Think brain think...I have a brilliant reputation to uphold. If I don't write something absolutely amazing, absolutely mind-blowing, everybody will laugh at me, and say I'm washed up even before I'm successful.
Oh wait, here comes something. It's seeping into my brain. Yes. I feel an epiphany any moment now...
"Poop."
My eyes light up as I write the words. It...It's amazing! Top that world. I print off the word "poop" and attempt to sell it at the Louvre museum in Paris, because I'm uneducated enough to believe that that is the only art museum in existence.
Before the curator can even speak a word in Frenchy-babble to me about the sheer brilliance of my work, I demand a specialized payment. I tell the man that I will only accept payment in the form of toy poodles. There's a reason I want that many poodles. You know those ball pit thingies like they have at Chucky Cheese? Well, I always wanted to have one of those, only with poodles instead of balls. Ideally, there would be enough poodles in there that my weight would be evenly distributed amongst them, and no single poodle would be crushed. I mean, it's not like I'm some kind of monster or anything.
But yeah. "Poop"
Comic gold, amiright?
Now I know. (Seriously, I do)
Sunday, September 12, 2010
What if...That Monk Over there is really excited?
What if today you decide to make a visit to your local monastery, because you're one of those types of people who have that much time on your hands? For you, the "local" monastery is about a 16 hour flight, so make sure you bring some reading material.
When you arrive at the monastery, you will be filled with wonder and awe at the sheer calmness, the utter focus and concentration, as well as the happiness of these ascetics. All except that one guy.
One of the oldest monks approaches you and speaks with you. You can tell he's older because he has an eye-patch. You ask him if he's a pirate.
''Like I haven't Heard that one before,'' He says.
He explains the monks way of life to you, how they have taken a vow of mostly silence. How they've learned to live without excess, and learned to let go of the things in life that bog them down. Finally, he explains that this life has brought many of them a great inner calmness.
Then, you will see that other monk doing cartwheels over there, jumping up and down like he just won the lottery.
''Oh yes, and then we have Lenny. Don't worry about him. He's always like that. He's kind of new.''
Lenny will run around in circles screaming at the top of his lungs:
''OH YEAH! I LOVE BEING A MONK! DID YOU HEAR ME GUYS? I SAID I LOVE BEING A MONK!''
The elder will sigh, and give himself a facepalm.
"Lenny...he still has a lot to learn..."
The elder always carries a small clay bottle with him wherever he goes. You wonder if it's filled with whiskey. If it is, you don't really blame him.
Now you know.
When you arrive at the monastery, you will be filled with wonder and awe at the sheer calmness, the utter focus and concentration, as well as the happiness of these ascetics. All except that one guy.
One of the oldest monks approaches you and speaks with you. You can tell he's older because he has an eye-patch. You ask him if he's a pirate.
''Like I haven't Heard that one before,'' He says.
He explains the monks way of life to you, how they have taken a vow of mostly silence. How they've learned to live without excess, and learned to let go of the things in life that bog them down. Finally, he explains that this life has brought many of them a great inner calmness.
Then, you will see that other monk doing cartwheels over there, jumping up and down like he just won the lottery.
''Oh yes, and then we have Lenny. Don't worry about him. He's always like that. He's kind of new.''
Lenny will run around in circles screaming at the top of his lungs:
''OH YEAH! I LOVE BEING A MONK! DID YOU HEAR ME GUYS? I SAID I LOVE BEING A MONK!''
The elder will sigh, and give himself a facepalm.
"Lenny...he still has a lot to learn..."
The elder always carries a small clay bottle with him wherever he goes. You wonder if it's filled with whiskey. If it is, you don't really blame him.
Now you know.
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