Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Overflooding the Stream of Consciousness

The last blog or two at least made sense. But today, I decided to just ramble on and see what happens.

A question is often raised, do clowns juggle? And if they do, where do they sell their act? I am not here to answer those questions. I'm just here to talk. Talk, talk, talk. That's all I want to do right now, and this is the best outlet for me to make it known. Do I look like a circus to you? Well, do I? ...Wait, don't answer that question.

In the past, I didn't make much sense. Now that I'm at least making some money, I'm making plenty of sense. Do cowboys dream of electric sheep, and do computers ponder the meaning of time, life, highlights, and Ranger Rick? Odds are 45 to 1 that I don't care about issues like those, and I would double those odds regarding the talent, or lack thereof, of people who jump off the diving board without a life jacket.

Anytime I listen to the Beach Boys and the Beatles, I think to myself, "how far has music fallen"? To answer that question, let's drive out to a really tall building. From there you can watch people bungee jump, skydive, or smoke cigarettes and wonder why people who have their lives ahead of them are experimenting with various ways to commit suicide. These are the same types of people who, I might point out, are responsible for the shape that the world is in. Rectangular. So rectangular, in fact, that you can fit Jupiter and the Crab Nebula into the same box and still have enough room to spare for a box of doughnuts. The suicide rates are rather high in those areas.

I've been eating those Reese's bars with peanut butter inside, and it's doing wonders for my acne. So wonderful, in fact, that I have to put medication on my face just to break even. Nothing odd about that, except the numbers on all my dice are missing. So, no. I will not drink aspartame, I will not listen to The Police with the volume all the way up, and I will have nothing to do with the little monkeys that are hopping around my brain.

I've been playing video games quite a bit in recent years. No big surprise there, except that the computers have developed a penchant for cheating. When they run out of ink, they simply use a new penchant and use it to rewrite the coding. I've highly suspected Mario to be responsible for this; the little red-uniformed man goes around saying "It's a-me, Mario", jumping around like a loon, and basically keeping an ace of spades inside his hat. I just can't respect people like that. The last time I did, I got flattened by Donkey Kong's go-kart. That really puts a crimp in my day.

And so the stream of consciousness bubbles on like an overly-carbonated soda pop...