The stork should deliver soup

June 16, 2009

I wish the stork delivered things other than babies. Like soup. Because let’s face it. We all love soup. Every last one of us. Without exception. And we crave it endlessly. Sometimes while we’re eating soup, we’ll already be craving the soup we’re going to eat two soups later. And by the time we get to that soup, we’re already craving a soup we’re not going to eat until the year 2011. That’s just the way we’re programmed. We’re basically addicted to soup. We can’t physically live a single moment during which soup is not being consumed and digested by our bodies. I’m eating soup right now. If I wasn’t, I think I’d be dead.

Given this, why wouldn’t the stork deliver soup? Only babies? Who needs a stork to deliver babies? Fucking delivers babies. Fucking does not deliver soup. The only thing that delivers soup is getting up off the couch, which we’re obviously not going to do, and walking to the supermarket to buy some soup. It’s 11:42pm right now, the supermarket isn’t even open. Well, the bodega is, and the bodega would also have soup, but this ruins my argument, so let’s pretend there isn’t a bodega literally half a block away. Or another bodega half a block past that. No bodegas. Only closed supermarkets. Where am I supposed to get soup after the supermarkets close? If I ran out of soup (which I won’t, because I have a 16-year supply), I’d really appreciate a stork knocking on my door with a new stock. I don’t even care that a stork likely can’t knock on a door, due to having wings instead of hands. There’s got to be some other way he can get my attention. I’m sorry for assuming the stork is a “he.” I’m just very sexist, and women belong in the kitchen. Making me soup.


The tortoise and the idiot

June 13, 2009

Seriously, why did the hare have to be so cocky? The race was his to win. He’s a speedster, and the tortoise is slower than a slug, but that cockiness was the end of him. How can anyone possibly be so cocky to think that a nap wouldn’t be some sort of hindrance to winning an event which requires you to always be moving forward? You don’t nap during a competition just because you’re way, waaaay ahead. That’s being a sore winner.

Poor hare has no idea what's in store for him

Poor hare has no idea what's in store for him

We all know the story of the tortoise and the hare, but the version we’ve all heard generally ends with the hare realizing he’s lost the race. What is usually neglected is the fact that the tortoise, after beating the hare in the race, became an even bigger sore winner than the hare had been in the first place.

When the hare reached the finish line, the tortoise was already drunk, having consumed nine glasses of champagne and currently in the midst of downing an Irish car bomb. The rest of the animal community had at first been proud of him, and had even joined in for some boozing, but the tortoise had, over the course of about ten minutes, become so obnoxious that the rest of the animals had been turned off, and they gradually abandoned him to let him drink on his own. (They all went to the local tavern to play darts). When the tortoise noticed that his opponent, the hare, had arrived at the finish line, he was sloppily slurring his speech and yelling hurtful, racist remarks.

The hare’s feelings were genuinely hurt, and he felt remorseful for having been so cocky (which he, for the rest of his days, never made the mistake of being again). He congratulated the tortoise, who spit in his face. The hare sighed, then went home to work on his thesis paper (“How NestlĂ© Raisinets® and The Italian War of 1535 Contributed to Chapman’s Decision to Shoot Lennon”). During the course of his studies, which were surprisingly not going so well, the tortoise repeatedly called him on his home phone and left insulting messages, such as “You literally smell like I would smell if I had lost the race instead of won it, but I don’t smell like that because I’m a winner and you do smell like it because you’re a pathetic, pathetic loser, and a gay,” and “You’re not good.” Once, he left eighteen messages in the span of seventeen seconds.

The hare was extremely upset. He wanted the obscene phone calls to end. He wrote a letter to the tortoise, pleading for peace. In response, the tortoise sent a gift basket. In the gift basket was the body of a dead hare. It belonged to the hare’s wife.

The hare moved to Seattle to escape the tortoise (who, due to being a tortoise, was not imprisoned for murder), but the tortoise cloned himself and sent the clone to Seattle. The clone was even more evil than the tortoise. Cloney (as he was called, not because he was a clone but because that is as close as you are legally allowed to be named to George Clooney, of whom the tortoise was an enormous fan, especially in “The Thin Red Line”) was not above torture. After hearing so much about Chinese water torture, he decided to give it a try on the hare, but then quickly changed his method to hanging, drawing, and quartering, which was once the ordained penalty in England for the crime of high treason. It is also a method that quickly leads to death. Cloney was victorious. The hare was dead.

But the tortoise didn’t stop there. He wrote a novel entitled “Why I’m Ashamed I Engaged in a Series of Acts That Led to the Violent Death of My Friend the Hare.” It was a bestseller. The novel allowed the tortoise to quit his day job (he had been an investment banker) and focus on writing full time. He was adored for his brave and emotional prose. He would later write “Shellshocked” and “1,053 More Things I’d Rather Eat Than That.”

But “Why I’m Ashamed I Engaged in a Series of Acts That Led to the Violent Death of My Friend the Hare” is a satire. It is blatantly obvious throughout the whole 950 pages that the tortoise, ever so sarcastic, was not at all ashamed and in fact elated at the torturous and murderous events that killed off the hare. There was a two-word epilogue. It read, “Goodnight, hare.”

The hare was buried in Arlington National Cemetery. He had been a decorated World War II veteran.


If broken legs were contagious

June 10, 2009

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how terrible it would be if broken legs were contagious. You’re walking down the sidewalk with your buddy Micah (if you don’t have a buddy named Micah, stop reading now, you won’t be able to relate to this) and suddenly six thugs appear out of nowhere and start hitting Micah in the legs with metal rods! It doesn’t take long before his legs are completely broken, and he’s screaming out in shock and severe pain, and then you realize that you too are screaming out in shock and severe pain, because your legs are also broken! Not only that, but there are six other people (the thugs) who are screaming out in shock and severe pain, because their legs are broken, too! So there’s eight of you squirming around on the sidewalk with broken legs, screaming out in shock and severe pain! A passer-by comes over to help, but then both her legs break! Another couple passers-by also try to offer a hand, but a few seconds later a hand is the only body part they have that’s not broken! (Additionally, all other body parts excluding both legs are not broken). By this time, other passers-by in the vicinity have realized that if you go near the eleven people squirming around on the sidewalk and screaming out in shock and severe pain, both your legs will break, so nobody else dares inch closer.

Until the paramedics arrive. But not long after their arrival, all of their legs have broken! To make matters worse, in this scenario, broken legs cause a very rapidly-spreading version of leprosy! Soon the broken legs have rotted completely off, and everyone goes about their normal routines once again.

By “everyone” I mean everyone except those whose previously broken legs have rotted off. You just can’t go about your normal routines if your legs have rotted off. That’s not the way the world (and human anatomy) works. If you’re one of the people whose legs have rotted off, chances are the rest of your body will soon rot. Because you have leprosy. And leprosy doesn’t stay exclusively in the legs. So before long, you’re dead.

Sorry. I know it’s grim, but it’s gonna happen.