Author Archive

In response to ever-fragmenting consumer markets, Costco has opened a new kind of warehouse shopping experience in the Deep South that caters discreetly to a certain unnamed, but plainly obvious demographic group. The stores’ name hints at its target market – J Crow. Membership is open to everyone, but due to complicated membership rules, it’s very difficult for “certain groups of people” to gain access to the store. The fact that J Crow has a Membership Suppression Department speaks volumes.  

 

J Crow is marketed as “A haven for Southerners with discriminating tastes – very discriminating tastes.” And the store has proven highly popular with its target audience. In fact, States’ Rights magazine voted J Crow the most popular warehouse store in the entire Confederacy.

 

This neo-Costco store features products we’re all familiar with, but have been rebranded to make them more appealing to this underserved group. A list of products catering to this unique demographic appear below:

 

1. KKKleenex – Comes in any color you want as long as it’s white. There are no racial issues with these facial tissues.
2. Jimmy Crow’s Pure Pork Sausage – You know it’s bad at every level, but somehow you just can’t resist it
3. Santa: Our Albino Christian Gift Giver – On sale now in the revisionist Christmas book section
4. Breyer’s All-White Neapolitan Ice Cream – The 3 flavors you love in one soothing color
5. Kellogg’s “Special KKK Cereal” – The cereal is not made from amber waves of grain, but from ample grains of bleached wheat
6. Southern Crackers – Are you kidding me? These saltines practically fly off the shelves.
7. Bigoted Playing Cards – Because sometimes you just want to play the race card
8. Crayola “Whiter Shade of Pale” Crayons – Box of 36 off-white colors including: Bone, Pearl Mist, Eggshell and Honky
9. All White M&M’s – Easily tolerated, diversity-proof snack where even the chocolate is white
10. Set of 8 Hot Wheels Race Cars – Each Hot Wheels race car is supposedly separate and equal, but guess which race always wins?
11. Cool Whip – No change to its pure, lily-white formula. It’s non-dairy and non-threatening
12. KKKrispy KKKreme Donuts – Southern fried, with Southern pride. No shortage of shortening here. In fact there’s a longage of shortening. Some say these empty-calorie donuts make the Deep South seem shallow. Very confusing, but very tasty.

 

Kirkland Corp. (Costco’s parent company) will be keeping a very biased eye on this new marketing  venture designed for people with discriminating tastes – very discriminating tastes. Kirkland Corp. hopes this endeavor will allow for other specialty warehouse themes appropriate to its locality. A few ideas floated include sombrero-shaped Costco’s in Mexico, pyramid-shaped Costco’s in Egypt and a Great Wall of Costco’s in China. These are just a few examples of Costco’s Big Box, out-of-the-box ideas.

Most of us are familiar with the story of the Midnight Ride of Paul Revere. The skilled silversmith and stout patriot galloped through the Massachusetts countryside to warn the citizens and alert the Minutemen of the impending British Invasion – not the Beatles 1964 invasion but the British Redcoats 1775 invasion. His Majesty’s Troops’ mission was to march to Lexington and Concord, secure the armory and powder houses, thereby disarming the revolutionaries.

 

It was little noted nor long remembered, but 1 week later he made another less mythologized ride. Almost lost to posterity but recently discovered in a blood-deprived area of my brain is the story of this other midnight ride of Paul Revere.

 

I’m pleased to present verbatim a brief discussion between Paul Revere and his wife Prudence Revere pertaining to the events of that other midnight ride on April 25^th 1775. 

 

 

Paul:          Pru, I think I’m gonna gallop over to Lexington for some milk. 

 

Prudence: What? Are you crazy it’s almost midnight. 

 

Paul:          Well you know how cranky our 15 children get if they don’t have their milk in the morning. 

 

Prudence: Oh, I see what’s going on here. You’re not going to Lexington at all are you ? You’re going over to Bunker Hill to see that Molly Pitcher woman. 

 

Paul:          Wha? No baby it’s you. It’s always been you. 

 

Prudence: Baby? You never call me baby. Is that what you call that little hussy of yours? 

 

Paul:          Pru, c’mon. What do you want me to call you “my sincerely appreciated helpmate.” I won’t be long. I’m just getting milk. It’s for the children. 

 

Prudence: Last week you went on another midnight ride with some flimsy excuse about there being 2 lanterns in the North Church steeple. What was that? Some kind of code? And then you came back at 6 in the morning all tired and spent…and with no milk.

 

Paul:          That was different Pru, I had to warn the people that the British were coming. 

 

Prudence: The British are coming? What are you talking about? We’re all British. Me thinks the British weren’t the only ones coming that night. And with that floozie Molly Pitcher. Shame. Shame. 

 

Paul:          Floozie? Who uses the term floozie? Where did you learn that? – From Reverend Dimmesdale? You see him a lot.

 

Prudence: I seek only spiritual guidance from Reverend Dimmesdale. Alright then, let me rephrase that – the wench Molly Pitcher. Point is I’m here with 15 kids and you’re out gallivanting in the countryside. 

 

Paul:          Pru, for the last time I’m going to a farm in Lexington to get some milk for tomorrow. It’s the only one open at this hour.

 

Prudence: And you couldn’t think of that at 7 o’clock? Whose farm is it anyway? 

 

Paul:          It’s old Mac Donald’s

 

Prudence: I heard he sold the place. Old Mac Donald had a farm. He’s in O-hi-o. 

 

Paul:          Did I say old Macdonald? I meant Pepperidge Farm. Yeah. They’ve got a new trot-thru window. 

 

Prudence: I know. I’m sorry Paul. I’m just antsy. I think I’ve got a bee in my bonnet what with the Puritan Festival coming up. How could I ever suspect you? You know I revere you Paul. 

 

With his wife’s suspicions allayed, he galloped off to Bunker Hill to see Molly Pitcher. And later that night his cries could be heard throughout the country side, “Paul Revere is coming! Paul Revere is coming!”

Oh Kleenex! My Kleenex!

 

When I place my nose deep in your tissue

I feel so depraved

Because what I issue in your tissue

‘tis mucous I’m afraid

 

Oh Kleenex! My Kleenex!

My fearful sneeze is thru

But I dare not look

To see that you took

All my nasal goo

 

Oh Kleenex! My Kleenex!

The filth I do deposit

Doth make me compelled

To open you up and see what’s beheld

 

Oh Kleenex! My Kleenex!

My mind is disturbed

For I can’t unsee the mayhem

It makes me perturbed

No I can’t unsee the gray phlegm

It makes me unnerved

 

Oh Kleenex! St. Kleenex!

Your tissues so absorb

The things I excrete

Straight out of my orb

I thank you I do

From my nasal cavity

And apologize greatly for my teenage depravity

 

Oh Kleenex! St. Kleenex!

Though you may think I’m being snotty

Be happy there’s toilet paper, right there by the potty 

For no matter what I’m wiping

‘tis you I adore

And no matter what I’m swiping

‘tis you I care for

 

Oh Kleenex! St. Kleenex!

You give so much, You ask so little

I need you now, to wipe my spittle.

 

We all know Pyramid schemes are bound to fail. Whether you’re undertaking a sketchy financial arrangement or undertaking a mummified pharaoh to his secret sepulchral chamber, pyramid schemes are an unworkable geometry. Why a nation-state should be in thrall of such a pseudo-religious structure is beyond me. However, I intend to reassess the bewitchery of these stony Jenga structures by examining the whys and wherefores of their construction set against the prevailing zeitgeist of 26^th century BC Egypt. And, imitation being the highest form of flattery, I intend to construct my analysis precisely and deliberatively – piece by piece, stacking one belief atop the other until they form a really strong triangular argument with a point. 

 

Ancient Egypt Wasn’t a Nanny State. It Was More of a Mummy State. 

We can’t help but marvel at the majesty of the pyramids – their sacred vaults larded with gaudy treasures, their magically proportionate numerology hinting at supernatural intervention, and their cartoonishly detailed hieroglyphs heralding the advent of Pixar animation. These curious features all conspire to create a sense of breathless awe and baffling mystery. As Egyptology hobbyist Winston Churchill once said (and I’m paraphrasing here): “The pyramids are a mummy wrapped in a mystery inside of a really big shade structure.”

The greater mystery however, is in why a nation-state would allocate a whopping 99% of its GDP to build a really, really big headstone for a guy who would’ve been just as dead had a simple $50 grave marker been placed over his embalmed eminence. The resulting savings of $3 trillion (in 2500 BC adjusted dollars) could’ve been distributed a bit more beneficially to the citizens of ancient Egypt. At that time there were shortages of everything except sand. There were shortages of practical things like tourniquets, irrigation channels and roads. But the most critical shortage was one of common sense. Why else would Egyptians build these monuments to excess?   

In the Egyptian scheme of spirituality, pyramids weren’t built so much to glorify a deceased pharaoh as they were to ensure his orderly transition of power from the earthly worlds to the nether worlds thereby avoiding the kind of afterlife chaos that could bleed into terrestrial realms. Happy King, happy subjects. In ancient Egypt this concept was known as appeasing Ma’at (Pronounced “Maw”, meaning divine order). Despite millennia of scholarly interpretation and rampant speculation, it turns out the mystery of pyramids was nothing more than a very big and very stupid insurance policy. And isn’t that essentially why many people practice religion today? Just in case there’s someone, somewhere with a ledger.

In a world where flooding, starvation and heat stroke were known as the prevailing conditions, the powers that be somehow thought it wise to divert 99% of their economic resources to stacking stones, on the pea-brain spiritual premise that by constructing such a geometric monstrosity, they’d be spared the wrath of their nature Gods. So they ponied-up literally a king’s ransom to appease these easily offended absentee Gods.

This is where the ancient Egyptians’ spiritual calculus breaks down. You see, if the flock was not paying proper respect to Ma’at and the pharaoh’s afterlife, they’d warrant a punishment for their misdeed. But in what manner would these absentee Gods punish their flock so they would feel the sting of their misbehavior? – by seeing to it that floods, starvation and heat stroke moved over the land? My point is, how would the peasants know the difference between experiencing the wrath of God’s retribution or just living under the prevailing conditions? Such irony when you can’t tell if you’re being punished or living the best life available. From this perspective, mollifying truant Gods by building resource-sapping pyramids presented an unmeasurable metric. You couldn’t tell if you were being punished or it was just Tuesday. Oh golly, such folly. 

Read the rest of this entry »

In these ingenuous little episodes of my early life I’ve mentioned frequently my close childhood friend Gary DeBaise. He appears so regularly and as such a perfect complement to my actions that one might suspect he is just a literary device or maybe even an imaginary friend. He is neither. But if I were to create an imaginary friend, I’d create him in Gary’s image. And I would never admit I had any imaginary friends because as I’ve often said (to myself only): Keep your friends close, and your imaginary friends closer.

No one wants to know about your imaginary friends. And thankfully I have none now that they’ve all grown up and moved away. But Gary remains a real lifelong friend; as real as the bracing deluge of an Ice Bucket Challenge. Gary grew up not 3 houses down from me. Well actually that’s not true. It wasn’t not 3 houses down. It was exactly 3 houses down. Oh how the truth will set you free. And now I feel free enough to share the spritely tale of a 7-year-old’s civil engineering project for the ages – ages 7-11. The US Army Corps of Engineers never executed a project so consummately.  

The kids on my block didn’t bother with playdates. We just played, on whatever date it was: whiffle ball, touch football, swamp fox, build and burn a model car. We also rode bikes with banana seats, caught grasshoppers in “The Lot” and habituated our neighborhood mom and pop store (Louise Bros.) for a nickel popsicle. Now at the risk of making this sound too mawkishly idyllic – like we walked out of a Norman Rockwell painting – I must interject, our block was no walk in the park (although there was a nearby park we could walk in). And not to put too gritty a point on it; our neighborhood was also rife with family upheaval, drug use and even suicide. But overall it was a dependable bastion of stay-at-home-moms (mine didn’t even drive till after the “divorce”), work-a-day fathers and healthy, juvenile tropisms. Simply put, we kids liked to do kids’ stuff.

The names of our “gang members” were straight out of an Andy Hardy movie. There was Ricky, Checker, Pat, Pat-Pat (so doubled to differentiate him from the older, more established Pat), and the aforementioned Gary. We were like dogs, padding about, waiting for the next great idea. One day, apropos of nothing, Pat-Pat announced: “Yesterday I drank everything through my toothbrush, just by dipping it in and then sucking out the fluid.” What these days would be met with a derisive smirk and a cold stare was then hailed as a breakthrough in sophisticated drink delivery systems. “Aw man,” Ricky declared, “I’m gonna do that all day tomorrow.”

Now when I say “gang members”, I refer to the motley collection of youthful personalities who banded together for constructive purposes (usually) and not a misguided and dangerous affiliation of urban warriors who think they have turf to protect – turf they don’t even own. I was the youngest member of the crew and as such I was always aspirational – wondering when I’d get to stay up and watch the late 10 o’clock shows like Mission Impossible or Star Trek; let alone some cool guy named Johnny Carson whose show was on at the ungodly hour of 11:30 PM. Years later I would actually penetrate this inky abyss and witness the Tonight Show not only on TV, but in person.

But clearly, in 1968 there were many bridges to cross and childhood metrics to cross off. And until the reality of my parents’ divorce, and it’s soul-killing angst intruded, I was on track to breeze through all of them. From the moment I first detected the incipient cracks in my parents’ marriage I was both uneasy in my predicament and yet supremely confident of my ability to navigate it. Ambivalence; it’s what’s for breakfast. Welcome to earth young David. Not that I was a deep-thinking 7-year-old, this was just the most sophisticated reasoning a 7-year-old could muster. And, truth be told, it’s not too far from the supposed higher reasoning this 60-year-old warhorse can muster either. In the interim there has been tremendous personal growth on my part. For example I’m much taller now than I was when I was seven, and I now drive a car instead of a banana-seat bicycle. Girls have evolved from an infernal nuisance to an eternal necessity. Read the rest of this entry »

1. What is Micronesia? Is that when you forget only a little bit. I can’t remember. It’s not the full-size “nesia”, it’s just a Micro-nesia.
2. Sequel to The Day the Earth Stood Still. The even more miraculous The Day My 2-year-old Stood Still.
3. “I like to order my fish with the head on so I know exactly what I’m getting.” “Yeah I do that too, but with veal.”
4. Male realtors admit; there looking for a turnkey girlfriend who’s move-in ready. A real head turner, and maybe a key turner too.
5. If a turkey is all ready to eat, does that make it a turnkey turkey?
6. Aren’t we all just end users?
7. I’m not growing old, I’m shrinking old
8. 

   A crime most foul (see how I didn’t say “fowl”). Killing 3 birds with one holiday.

   We love TurDucken (a chicken, stuffed into a duck inside a turkey), but we also want other types of 3-layered stuffed things:

   1. GiCamPo – That’s a polar bear stuffed into a camel inside a giraffe. Especially good for patients, who on the advice of their doctor, are on an all giraffe, camel and polar bear diet.
   2. A Black and White ZePandUnk – That’s a skunk stuffed into a panda inside a zebra. Comes in B&W.
   3. GriffBeaFife – That’s a Barney Fife stuffed into an Aunt Bea inside an Andy Griffith. “Mmmm Good Cracker.”
   4. PumpCoNimitz – That’s an aircraft carrier, stuffed into a coconut inside a pumpkin. They ate these on Gilligan’s Island. I think that’s how they survived in Micronesia, but I can’t quite remember.
9. If stuffing a turkey with idiots is outlawed, only outlaw idiots will be stuffed into turkeys. Think about that before you gobble.
10. I know.  I’m a little worried about all the turkey references too. I mean c’mon man, let it go.
11. I don’t know about the new guy. I’ve had 3 conversations with him and in each one he’s managed to work in the word “colo-rectal” several times.
12. Snap, Crackle and Pop get in over their heads down at the milk pond. It almost leads to the drowning of a very soggy Crackle.
13. A coolly disarming thing to say to a room full of high-powered strangers, “I just came in to see how big everybody’s egos were, and to create some standing for myself. Mission accomplished? I thought so.”
14. Aren’t we all just visitors?
15. If you want to avoid food poisoning, only eat oysters in months that have x’s in them
16. Most men are rescue boyfriends in need of a certified service girlfriend (warning: don’t pet them unless you get permission).
17. In Ireland large Leprechauns are discriminated against. Instead of a pot of gold they get a pot of coal.
18. He makes me nervous. Whenever we have a conversation he always refers to my “sit bones.”
19. Metamorphic rock is a metaphor for four formations formerly forgotten. I know, forced it. Forgive me.

 

1. 

   Remember when they were the supposed enemy?

   Communists suffer from Hammer & Sickle Cell Anemia

2. Children are sick of Arm & Hammer Baking Soda
3. All lobsters are shellfish. When was the last time one lent you a helping claw?
4. Empowered crabs say, “The world is our oyster.”
5. Steroidal mussels suffer from ‘roid rage
6. Stool pigeons told to clam up
7. Dog traces picture of cat after watching alpha dog do the same. The pack is calling it a copycat mime
8. The band “10 Years After” is getting back together and touring under the new name “50 Years Before”
9. Beethoven had a Bee in his thoven.
10. Midwives who live in halfway houses rarely go all the way

Nowadays they just call me crazy to my face. And why? Maybe it’s because I enthusiastically purchased a $480 one-way AMTRAK ticket for me and my wife on a scheduled 26 hour 36 minute journey from Reno to Denver – a ticket that would cost half as much and take 24 fewer hours if we were to travel by air. You remember AMTRAK don’t you? They’re the ones that use those bright and shiny, parallel metal thingies we all drive over at railroad crossings. Oh, how quickly we forget. For 100 years these track-borne conveyances (often referred to as “trains” if I remember correctly) were this country’s life blood – connecting people and businesses in a generative web of travel and commerce. It was the original World Wide Web. The World Wide Web of wailwoading. Railroading’s antique charms beguile me. Though you may have relegated train travel to the dust bin of history, I have elevated train travel to the must spin of this-story.  

If life is about the journey, this is a journey I long to take. Think of it as the road less traveled. The rail road less traveled. As Robert Frost wrote with such evocative homespun eloquence in his poem The Road Not Taken:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference

And I am eager to take that road less traveled – the railroad. Read the rest of this entry »

Hardiman Reviews Copycat Novels You Should Avoid

 

In Ray Bradbury’s dystopian chiller Fahrenheit 451, we come to learn that 451° is the temperature at which paper burns. And this particular paper is incinerated courtesy of a fascist state that’s burning books to discourage critical thinking and to promote unswerving compliance to their repressive regime. It’s a cautionary tale that has become a literary and cultural touchstone.

 

Fahrenheit 451 portrays the far-reaching consequences of unexamined groupthink and it has spawned copycat novels of considerably less gravitas that portray the near-reaching consequences of examined triviality. Say what? Say this: These flimsy, opportunistic novels piggybacking on the shoulders of the more magisterial Fahrenheit 451 are to be avoided. One may wonder if this comparison is some kind of joke. And the answer is yes. Yes it is some kind of joke. Humorous warnings about unworthy copycat novels is not an easy premise to wrap your mind around. But I’ve done all the wrapping and unwrapping for you and I present your unwrapped present, presently. All you have to do is the reading.

 

So as a service to humanity and my  6  faithful readers (alright, 3 faithful readers including me), I’ve taken time out of Day 2608 of my retirement to highlight some of these gravitas-deficient books. I present them to you before they’re mercy-burned by the National Book Club for being so epically inconsequential.

 

Hardiman’s Review of Fahrenheit 451 Copycat Novels You Should Avoid

 

• Fahrenheit 212° – In Europe this book is sold as Celsius 100°. It boils down to this: It’s the exact same idea, just on a different scale. Hard pass.
• “Fahrenheit, Fahrenheit, Fahrenheit” – In this reboot of the Brady Bunch franchise, Marsha changes her name to Fahrenheit. The book’s title derives from sister Jan’s exasperation with Fahrenheit always getting things her way, causing Jan to whine, “Fahrenheit, Fahrenheit, Fahrenheit.” It’s a surprisingly entertaining book, especially in chapter 8 when Fahrenheit convinces Davy Jones to perform at her high school’s prom.
• 50 Shades of Fahrenheit – Things heat up very quickly in this steamy novel of forbidden temperature-taking. It’s original title was Hide the Thermometer. The entire time I was reading it, all I could think was, “Don’t go there. Please don’t go there.” And then it went there. Not only is it a novel of little value, but I could’ve done without the illustrations.
• Fahrenheit 271 – In this dense philosophic treatise we learn that 271° is the temperature at which Play-Doh burns. That’s all well and good. But then the author says it’s also the temperature at which Socrates burns. Hmmm. We strain to understand why he’s discussing the combustibility of Play-Doh and Socrates until we realize he spelled Play-Doh incorrectly. He meant to compare Plato and Socrates, not Play-Doh and Socrates. I’m told the publisher cancelled his other essay where he attempts to compare Silly Putty and Aristotle.
• Fahrenheit 61 – A glacially paced and less than startling novel. We go through 321 pages of drivel to discover Fahrenheit 61 is the temperature at which most people decide, “Yup, better bring a sweater.” Is this literature or just normal self-care?
• Fahrenheit 116 – The author claims 116° is the temperature when seagulls go (not “say” but “go”) “This incarnation sucks. It’s 116° and there’s no place to land but on scorching asphalt. Man my webs are really barking today.” To me, seagulls are the carp of the air. The book seems to be offering the thoughts of a seagull. Nah, pass on this one – Jonathan Livingston Seagull it ain’t.
• Fahrenheit 92 – When you discover that 92° is the temperature when cheese begins to melt, you’ll be asking yourself, “And this is important because…?” The book claims to “blow the lid off of the secretive Kraft Velveeta skunk works” in Wisconsin. Well there are no “Velveeta skunk works” in the Cheesehead state. Velveeta is openly manufactured in Monroe, NY. A word to the wise, if you weren’t lactose-intolerant before you read this cheesy book, you will be afterward.
• Fahrenheit 42 – Inconsequentiality at its best: It’s the temperature at which Fudgies begin to melt. Not too significant to you maybe, but try telling that to the Bowery Boys on a steamy summer day in sweltering New York City and suddenly it becomes a real issue. Real fast. Fast and Slurryious!
• Burned at the Stake: The Salem Witch Trials – This scientific take on the trials is more about the temperature at which possessed bodies combust, and less about alleged witchcraft. You know you’re in trouble when the author writes, “These nerdy witches really quality-controlled their spells. In fact they wouldn’t even consider casting a spell until they ran it through Spell Check”. The whole book reads like some kind of Witch Hunt or something.
• The Daniel Fahrenheit Story – A biography of the inventor of the thermometer. It measures his life in varying degrees. The book describes his intellectual break with fellow temperature measurers Anders Celsius and Lord Kelvin when in chapter 7 Fahrenheit explains, “I always said that the mouth was fine for taking a temperature. But Celsius had been drinking and says, ‘Y’know where else we could put it?’ And the idea stuck – he’s such an ass. And as for Lord Kelvin, my God! The man is an absolute zero.”
• Fahrenheit 146 – It’s the average atmospheric temperature the Earth must reach before Global Warming deniers will believe in climate change. In this hydro-thrilling tale, after the polar ice caps melt, the last million people are clinging to life atop Mount Everest eating the few remaining Clif Bars. And of that remaining million, the author informs us that almost 65,000 are named L’il Uzi. Huh?
• Fahrenheit 3.14159 – The author claims it’s the temperature at which pi melts. WT? It’s written by the same guy who patented the term, “May the Fourth be with you.” I can’t recommend this book. It’s irrational and just goes in circles.
• Braille 451 – It’s Fahrenheit 451, but for blind people. In this tale of graduated discovery, the sight-disadvantaged are instructed to fondle the bumps on a special thermometer to determine the temperature. At the end of the novel it’s revealed that what they’ve been fondling is not a thermometer.
• Fahrenheit -33 – -33° is the theoretical temperature at which all conversation comes to a complete standstill because it’s just too f*cking cold to move your lips.  
• Fahrenheit: Fair in Height – A botched attempt at homonymically titling a biography of Daniel Fahrenheit. When the crazed biographer writes, “Fahrenheit is fair in height and mercurial in nature” we know it’s time to put the book down and dial 911.
• Fahrenheit 98.6 – It’s a temperate, metaphoric call to accepting all sexual orientations. We are reminded that 98.6 is the temperature of homeostasis. We are also reminded that it’s the temperature of heterostasis thereby proving the maxim that “love is love and temperature is temperature.” It’s a loving reminder that we all share same-temperature tendencies. Whether we measure it in Fahrenheit, Celsius or Kelvin, we’re all measuring the same thing.
• Green Eggs and Fahrenheit – Dr. Seuss attempts to turn a white egg green, by making it very envious. I did not like this book. I did not like it… (and at this point I refuse to launch into Dr. Seuss prose).
• Fahrenheit 160 – A group of mountaineers set out to prove that water boils at 160° atop Everest at 29,000 feet. After withstanding grueling hardships and the loss of 6 fingers (amongst the party) they discover that yes, it does. But they also discover that they could’ve conducted the experiment in half an hour at 29 feet in an altitude-modified hyperbaric chamber.

 

Are you enjoying reading this and participating in my little mentally orchestrated bookshelf? Just like they do in the movies sometimes, I too like to break the 4^th wall and talk directly to my readers (the faithful 2 excluding me) in kind of a shared experience of knowingness. It strengthens our bonds and makes us feel more connected – not just to each other, but to the universe at large (and it is large, isn’t it?).

In this way we are reminded we’re not just some alienated, stand-alone unit cast out onto an indifferent universe not knowing what to do. And how do we know this? Well, we’ve always known it, we’ve just forgotten it due to our immersion in predicaments and circumstances I can’t account for.

I do know how to get behind it sometimes so I don’t feel like I’m just some silly figure surrounded by uncontrollable circumstances. A little boundary dissolving is a good thing. I know that what I say is true .0001% of the time, which means it’s really true all the time. Remember, time is a malleable dimension, except when you’re passing a kidney stone – then it likes to stop and stand still.

And because this is the end, I’m going to finish it with 2 periods..

Please Consider this Exciting and Eerie Career Featuring Killer Benefits and Lethal Clichés  

• Urn while you Burn
• Watch while your best work goes up in smoke
• Compliant cadavers are never a pain in the ash
• Job Burnout? Not a problem. In fact, it’s encouraged.
• Job Security? Not a problem. In fact, you get to fire people all the time.
• As a frontline Cinder Chef, you’ll have a platform for making inappropriate jokes to bereaved families:
  1. Well, the good news is that Gladys now has a smokin’ hot body
  2. Did you know you’re not supposed to cremate bodies in months that have “embers” in them?
  3. I’m sure Rupert will always carry a torch for you
  4. His ashes? Oh, that cremains to be seen
     

     This crematorium will ensure your final journey is well urned.

• Recognition? Retirees are eligible for the CHF (Crematorium Hall of Flame)
• Learn more by watching the Discovery series: Deadliest Match. Or the Food Network’s Diners, Drive-ins and Corpses
• COVID Compliance? Now offering No Contact Drive-thru Incineration

 

Note to Applicants: We’re pleased to announce that business is dead. So much so that we are looking for self-starters to consider a career as an Ignition Mortician. Think of it as a different kind of Tinder. Job interviews are very thorough, but don’t worry, you won’t be grilled. We look forward to hearing from you. We’ll keep a candle for you, burning in the oven.