Do you whistle into wells?
Do you whistle well into wells?
Are you a well whistler
whistling well into wells?
Well, whistle well, my
Why? well, ask no more.
Wealth wills walls to wake
wavy Willis wisdom, now
to the masses
than ever before.
Whether the world
would be willing to wait
for a worthwhile patch
to the genuine system
is still yet to be seen.
WALDO! Get my wafer-thin
wallet, it’s time to wail!
Womp womp, simulation’s over.
Get your irons out of the fire,
boys! Time to reiterate,
we have no woolly mammoths.
I repeat, we have NO
Who among us possesses the heightened foresight necessary for the stoppage of Lincoln Log assembly lines–from the comfort of our own homes, no less? You may or may not be surprised to learn that less than two-thirds of one percent of the eligible voting population has the wisdom needed to stall the complete automation of the manufacturing process, and less than half of those individuals are capable of making such changes as independent contractors, not beholden to office politics or busybody micromanagers, though completely on their own when tax time rolls around (not that they would have it any other way).
Before this new wave of automation limitation, most folks simply had to wonder how the common denominator would cope with the never-ending shrinkage of employment opportunities, with living wages becoming an antiquated notion and multiple sources of income the new norm.
That’s not to say that we’re out of the woods just yet; computers and the subsequent technologies developing from their implementation have voiced their displeasure with how we’ve treated our one and only planet (as far as we all know to this point), coming close to the enforcement of capital punishment–like that ever did any good in the first place.
Long story short, my allergy to bee stings has made it very difficult for me to feel at all comfortable leaving the security of my home, leaving me alone with my stewing thoughts (largely regarding the most recent GDP of the Philippines).
All right class, let me just jot some things down on the chalkboard here…
What am I hoping to achieve through the the synthesis of words in this particular manner? It would appear as though I’m looking for the special key that was crafted for the sole purpose of conveying the cosmic Truth as I see it. The nice thing about this hypothetical key is the almost-negligible cost to gain access to whatever happens to lie behind the lock–that is to say, the lack of necessity for lavish expenditures in order to reach the same island of internal artistic fulfillment as anyone else who’s choosing to express themselves on this particular plane. That’s not to say that this medium of words on a page or board is inherently superior to any other form of creative expression, it’s just obviously much cheaper (which appeals to my frugal sensibilities).
Now! Who’s ready to start learning the alphabet?
Oh come on, nobody’s excited about exploring the 26 letters of our language? When I was your age, I already knew what a silent E was. Trust me, you’re going to want to know these principles as you get bigger and need to concisely present your thoughts to the world around you.
Okay, okay. I can see that I’ve lost you guys. That’s okay; I’ve been teaching kindergarten for 25 years, and this is par for the course. I think you all have definitely earned your snack and nap through how attentive you’re being today, so good for you! Now remind me, who among you are vegetarian/vegan/lactose intolerant? Anybody know? Okay, pretzels and applesauce for everyone! Yippee!!
There’s something you gotta know when it comes to filling the back of a notebook page in order to get the most usage out of the limited real estate within that binding: there will always be more notebooks out there, but none in exactly the same space and time as the one being used for that particular purpose. Plus, you don’t want to be that jerk who wastes perfectly good page space because of a stupid aesthetic hang-up of some sort. I thought we were working toward something greater, you know? Just call me old-fashioned that way, but I tend to prefer writing my thoughts down in a physical book that was bound with care (or with reckless abandon, either by a person or a machine, depending on how cheap said book is). Perhaps a part of it is my narcissism and the desire to see my handwriting form my thoughts in a way that nobody else could, rendering it wholly unique in this world. Anyone can use a kitschy font to accomplish their compositions, but the uniformity of the pixel arrangements just seems to drag on my soul in such a way where I must allow my hand to express the gunk floating around in my brain (which, in turn, was planted there by the subconscious and unconscious in a seemingly-random order, brimming with detail and novel goodness). Even using my hand to capture thoughts on a tablet with a state-of-the-art pressure-sensitive stylus has a feeling of disconnection from the unlimited facets of our universe, even if the resolution of that tablet is so well-defined that you can no longer see individual pixels. Call me old fashioned (and a broken record), but books are the bee’s knees.
The future of telekinetics goes as follows:
Gene Squadron Trowel-Resistant
Jungle Drapes, Inc.
[A Subsidiary of Jaunty
Tom Cat Harry and his Grumpy
[That Silly Old Boy,
He Really Should Be
But Aren’t You a Bob
Yesterday, 12,000 bees or so
decided to, uh, there’s
no other way to put it, swarm
on my succulent ‘do.
°Nothin’ I could ‘do.®
°Intellectual Property of
The Gideon Partners
Umpteen liberty steaks transgress
like no other cut of meat
ever conceived by our dedicated team
of mix-n-match overachievers,
and you can quote me on that.
I don’t find this grand display of sentience
to be entirely unexpected, but I really thought
a few generations of anthropomorphization
would have had to come and go
before such nationalistic forms of protein
started speaking up.
I’ve been proven wrong in my assumptions
more times than I can count at this point.
I hold no grudges; I march on
as any man of science would.
Twelfth set of longings today.
That’s an awful lot of bagel children
moping around without lox,
nary a lick of cream cheese in sight.
What are they to do?
All they really can do is visualize
the didgeridoo spanning the moment
as though it always knew
there would be a bagel cart
at craft services–
once Terry gets off his ass.
All kidding aside, Terry
really does mean well,
he just needs a fire lit
under that comfortable posterior
every now and then.