Paper Cups Spell Disaster

…for now. but don’t get your hopes up for more stories soon, it took just under two years from King Cinnamon Roll to these, and it is a lot of work (or something).

However, I need your help. The next story started as a dream (that was pretty boring actually) but interesting. After I woke up, my imagination ran wild and vomited this almost coherent gathering of sentences into my notebook. Oh yeah, help. It is untitled. And ‘untitled’ is the worst title ever (even worse than all the other bad titles). So, I need a title. Instead of me spoon-feeding a title to everybody, how about everybody spoon-feeds me a title? I will pick the best one and whoever it was that came up with the best title will get a prize. Something along the lines of a free peanut butter sandwich (with jelly, if you insist) or erotic massage (you will be given the privilege of giving me the massage, just to be clear) or maybe a high-five, but those are not given out lightly, so the title will have to be really good to get a high-five.

Enough babbling…

Drifting slowly on a breeze so slight it would be unrecognizable to anything else, a small particle of dust was hoping to waft past his friends to hang out and chat. There was nothing peculiar about this speck of dust, so it could not go about as it pleased, but had to follow whatever whim the wind wished. And usually, the whim of the wind was to blow. Today would be no different. At all. Because the wind wishes to blow, of the wind does not exist. Not both.

Back to the dust. His friends were east, which is where he wished to go. But the wind, unable to read the thoughts of dust, wished to blow west. So, the wind blew west, and a bit north (the wind’s left leg is slightly longer than the right, causing it to always drift to the right). This made the dust sad. They were the only friends he had. He worried this was the foreboding of this demise. However, the demise of the dust would not come so soon.

Taking the dust ever north (and everyone knows what happens in the north), the wind started to get chilly and dug out his finest cloud coat, to keep him warm. The wind did not want to bring its cloud coat, but its mother made it, and it shuddered at the thought of her voice, “See, I told you a coat would be a good idea, now didn’t I?” The wind decided not to tell that he ever even considered using the coat. What is with mothers always being right?

In all the jostling of putting the coat on, the dust happened to meet some new friends. They were not as nice, or as funny, or as cool as his old friends, but friends were friends and he kept his mouth shut about anything he disagreed with.

The day was getting old, and the wind was getting cold (it had traveled way farther north than it ever had before). So cold, in fact, that the wind stole any cloud coat it found unattended. After finding seven or eight, the static electricity started to zap back and forth between the coats with bright blinding flashes and loud rumbling crashes. Getting scared, the group of dust began looking for a safer place to be. They happened upon a collection of water droplets, who were also frightened. Heading nearly due north, the temperature began to plummet.

Seeking warmth, the water and dust huddled as close together as they could, which turned out to be a beautiful mistake. When the temperature dropped below freezing, the water began to… well… freeze. Forming amazing crystal structures around and between the dust, effectively transforming the dust and water into a clump. Sparkling in the flashes, nearby water and dust were drawn to the clump’s amazing beauty. As more water and dust froze the the clump, more and more attention was being drawn, a classic example of the snowball effect.

The clump grew and grew in every direction, quickly becoming much too large to simply drift along with the wind. But that was fine. The clump was tired of being a tag-along anyway. It wanted to lead! And lead it did. Down. Little did it know, but very similar events were happening all around. Soon, trillions of clumps were following that first clump steadily downward. Wave upon wave of escape pods, falling from the cloud coats, beyond the wind’s will to dominate. They were free! Free to do whatever they wanted. And as long as they wanted to go down, there were no complaints. As their slow escape continued, something large came into view. Something very large. That something was the ground. The army of invading clumps began to assail the earth. Millions and millions of clumps landed, on after the other, for hours on end. The clumps became mounds. The mounds became piles. And the piles were shoveled off the streets, sidewalks and driveways to become banks. The dazzling white of the endless banks prompted everyone to drop what they were doing to create shelters in the banks and the kids refused to go to school.

This seemingly once in a lifetime chain of events miraculously happened many, many, many, many, many, many times in the following days and weeks, changing the banks into mountains, scattered among the houses.

Months passed, and the Sun, realizing it had been neglecting the north, turned its attention there to warm things up a bit. Eight days later, the mountains slowly receded into banks. And the banks to piles. And the piles to mounds, all the while feeding small brooks and puddles, which grew steadily to streams and ponds then into rivers and lakes, which eventually dried up to become little water drops in the air, leaving behind an arid bowl that, if anyone dared venture in, every step would belch a small puff of dust into the wind.

(Just so the prizes stated above does not discourage any title submissions, the real prize would be something akin to a random cool toy (unopened), star shaped pillow (unused) or a free lunch (undigested)… something like that. In the event that you are too far away, something else will happen. Like a prize extremely similar to these, whenever I happen to see you.)

“if you make art for people’s EYESES and then they look and their eyeses have art then they can demolish the art with their mouths and then their tummy’s will have art and all will be grand!!! “

I would like to thank Ana for this powerful, thought-provoking and inspirational encouragement.  At the point only moments before this, I was at my wits end, unable to continue, but this… this gem of a quote (which is ‘prety much amazing’) snapped me out of my wit-endedness (wtf?) and something happened.

(i can’t believe i spelled prerequisite right on my first try!)

Because my DVD drive apparently is not actually a DVD drive (even though it is…) and refuses to play any of the movies I was wanting to watch (I even made popcorn), I will torture some helpless soul with yet another story.  And this one is not funny at all.  NOT AT ALL.

But, to make the title of the post relevant, you have to read King Cinnamon Roll first.  King Cinnamon Roll is the story linked to in the post a little closer to your hands than this one.  Yeah, the little wheel thing on your mouse?  Use it.  (in the event your mouse is not equipped with a little wheel thing, I apologize and you will have to use some other method of scrolling down.  If you figure it out, tell me how, the mice at school don’t have little wheel things and I can never get past the first page.  It is extremely difficult to read something when all you can see is the top.)

ANYWAY… read King Cinnamon Roll first.  I can’t remember where or why, but this story references it in some way.  I hope you enjoy pain.

    After weeks of deliberation and boredom, I finally decided to again obtain a position as a sales associate at a popular restaurant, Panera Bread.  One product that consistently sells out is the Panera Cinnamon Roll.  A few of the rolls, as described in King Cinnamon Roll, are more powerful than others.  They, sadly, seem to be mostly of the male persuasion (sadly, because I believe in the equality of all foods, male or female.  Except pumpkins, they are just weird).
    The male cinnamon rolls often find wives, witch I affectionately call Cinnamonette Rolls.
    This is possibly the most disturbing story about any single Cinnamonette Roll ever.  This particular Cinnamonette roll was sadly deformed into an elongated, ellipse-like shape.  As a benefit of being an employee, “broken” food is not discarded, but placed in a pile for workers to munch on when dodging a horde of customers.
    Strewn in with other pastries, whom the cinnamonette roll had dominance over, the cinnamonette found something she did not expect.  There, sitting on the outskirts of the pastry pile was the most stunning banana.
    While staring at the banana’s ruggedly handsome peel, the cinnamonette wondered what sort of fruit she would find beneath.
    “You there, bear claw, bring me down to that banana.”  The bear claw promptly heeded her command.
    “Hello.”  She said shyly.
    “Hello.”  His voice was candy to the ears.  Or at least the equivalent of candy to an article of food.
    The banana and cinnamonette sat, talked, laughed, talked, stared into each other’s eyes, cried, sat, sat closer and eventually cuddled for what seemed like a lifetime.  A lifetime of perfection.  When the lights went out that night, and the manager now off duty locked up, the cinnamonette and banana fell asleep in each other’s arms.
    In the morning, when the cinnamonette awake, what seemed like a lifetime the day before had turned to reality, for the banana had died.

Alternate ending:
    In the morning, when the banana awoke, what seemed like a lifetime the day before had turned to reality, for the cinnamonette had died.

Alternate  Alternate Ending:
    In the morning, when the banana and cinnamonette awoke, what seemed like a lifetime the day before had turned to reality, for they both had died.

Alternate, Alternate, Alternate Ending:
    In the morning, when the banana and cinnamonette awoke, what seemed like a lifetime the day before had turned to reality, for they both had died.  And gone to heaven where they lived, dead, for all eternity, in each other’s arms.

The End

well, here it is.  the stories.  kinda.

first,  King Cinnamon Roll.    I think that is the only one previously posted… and I am too lazy to REALLY check, so ill say it is.  You will need to read KCR to understand one of the others, but not this one.

and thats all.  just kidding.  coming up, we have Talking Toiletries, first presented to my english class senior year (and I actually passed!)

    “After years of washing my hair once for varying lengths of time ranging from ten seconds to just over ten minutes, often trying to accumulate the most bubbles possible, my hair cleansing world was rocked tonight when I found not one, but two bottles of shampoo in the shower.  Being no different than anyone else, I instantly began to debate which hair product to use.
    “Use the usual stuff, you always do, that’s why I call it the ‘usual stuff.’” I said.
    From somewhere behind me, a strange voice replied, “NO!  Most certainly not!  Use the new stuff!  It’s new!”
    At first I thought someone had broken down the door and stormed into my bathroom to tell me to use the new shampoo, but that is silly.  My dad was at work and could do no such thing from a distance.
    “Listen to me, you want to use the new stuff.” The voice continued, “You will like it.”  This guy was good, he knew exactly what to say.  At first, I was clearly going to use my usual shampoo, it is, after all, my usual shampoo, the stuff I usually use.  This voice, though, it was digging further into my decisions than anything ever had before.  I had to find out who it was, but the voice was gone.  Possibly never to be heard again I thought.
    “No, I will be back because I will never leave.”  Said the voice as if it read my mind.  Now that is creepy.
    Nearly five minutes passed before my deliberation ceased.  “I will use my usual shampoo.”  I declared to myself confidently.
    “Dang, I never win these arguments.”  It was that voice again.  I was getting annoyed with its ability to read my mind.  Talking to me in the shower was a bit weird as well.
    “And you never will.”  I now grasped my usual shampoo in my hand and flipped open the top.  Slowly and deliberately, I squeezed a small amount into my palm and replaced the lid.  Carefully at first, and slightly doubting my decision, my usual shampoo filled the shower with a fruity fragrance that immediately invigorated me from knees to elbows, being that my hands and fingers were already active and nobody wants to hear about jumpy feet.  Something wasn’t right.  The bubbles usually produced by this procedure were not accumulating in my hair and dripping down onto my shoulders.  Very disappointed, I rinsed my hair and reached for the soap.
    “Give me a try, mate!” proclaimed a strong, Australian voice.  “You will like the way it feels!”  Glancing around and seeing nobody, I again reached for the soap when the Australian again piped up, “No, no no.  Rub me in your hair.”  Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of the new shampoo bottle.  It had a small cartoonish face upon the cap where the vertical grips are usually found.  The bottle had bent back and was looking up at me intently.  
    “What the…?”
    “Yes, I know, a talking bottle of shampoo.  I get that look a lot.  Nobody ever knows what to think, just talk to me and use me to wash your hair.  I guarantee you will never go back to your ‘usual’ crap.  Did you know it smells like fruit?”
    “Well what do you smell like?”
    “Take off my cap, squeeze some into your hand and give it a whiff.  I cannot describe the aroma to you, for I have no nose.  You will like it.”
    “Eh, I have time, I suppose I could give it a shot.”  Was I ever in for a surprise.  While carefully squeezing the new shampoo bottle into my hand, my usual shampoo took notice and seemed angry.
    “Oh my…this is…I don’t…  This is worse than catching the conditioner with the body wash.  Simply disgusting.  I see how our relationship has deteriorated.  You lather with less intensity and vigor, but did you have to defile my family name by using another shampoo right in front of me like I don’t exist?  You, my ex-friend, are a very bad man.”
    “You have got to be kidding me.”  I exclaimed out loud.  Now I had two talking bottles of shampoo and a mysterious mind-reading voice.  I attempted to block out the protests of my usual shampoo, but they were pretty annoying.  My hair was soon covered in bubbles.  This mountain of bubbles was immense.  To be honest, I believe the total amount of bubbles weighed more than I did at the time.  But that is just silly.
    “Wow, look at all the bubbles.”  I said, to no one in particular.
    “Yes, you see, I knew all along you would like the new stuff better.  Didn’t I tell you?  The past five minutes have been wasted by your slow decision making habits and stubborn shampoo selection.”  It was that voice again.  Damn, I thought he left.
    “You like using my shampoo, don’t you mate?”
    “He most certainly does not.”  I never suspected my usual shampoo to be Irish.
    “Oh yes he does, just look at all those bubbles.  That man is in bubble heaven.”
    “Ay, I suppose you somehow know this particular person likes lots of bubbles because you have been in his shower for a total of one day, hmm?”  My usual shampoo’s Irish accent still baffled me.
    “As a matter of fact, he said he liked the bubbles not a minute ago.”
    “I did not.”  The Australian shampoo was putting words into my mouth!
    “Yes you did, right after you dedicated your life to the outback style shampoo who makes more bubbles than any ol’ Irish bottle of crap.”
    “There is no way some Aussie can make more bubbles than the Irish Shampooing Sensation!”  A shampoo war had begun right in front of my eyes.  My mind raced to find a way to settle this silly dispute only to come up with emptying both bottles down the drain, but shampoo is no cheap commodity.  Especially this foreign stuff I would assume.  
“Wash your hair with your old stuff.”  My invisible voice chipped in.
“What on earth will that prove?”
“Shampooing your hair a third time using your usual shampoo will see if other factors add to the bubbly ness of your hair.”  My mother had told me never to argue with a voice you cannot see, for you cannot see if they could bash your face in.  This guy seemed to talk to me within my own head.  With my own mouth even.  So I naturally rinsed my hair to wash it once again with my usual shampoo.
“Ah, yes do it lad!  Rub it deep into your scalp, let the bubbles flow!”
“Hah, that old Irish bloke lies to you.  I am the bubbliest of all shampoos, use me once more and satisfy your craving for bubbles.”  His pitch had fallen on deaf ears.  The “Irish bloke’s” shampoo was already in my hand and half way to my head.  Slowly at first, and with gaining speed my fingers massaged every follicle on every inch of my head, working the shampoo in deeper and deeper.  Bubbles abounded.  The mountain of bubbles seen with the Australian shampoo was dwarfed by the awesome amount of bubbles produced by the Irish fellow.  They flowed down my arms and back to collect about my feet.  Not only did it collect by my feet, but soon to my knees then my waist.  The flood of bubbles had started to seep out of the shower and onto the bathroom floor.  I did not care.  For me, this was better than heaven.  I was surrounded by zillions of bubbles.  They crept closer and closer to the door and the small gap underneath.  They began to spill out into the family room.  The bathroom was nearing capacity and it was all I could do to keep from inhaling the suds.  I could hear those bottles of shampoo duking it out somewhere under the bubbles, but I did not care.  
“This is going to be a pain to clean up, you know.”
“Yes I know, now who are you?”
“I am you.  You are me.  We are the same.”  Great, I thought, another voice to crowd my head.  He was, however, right.  The cleaning would have to be done, but not today.  So I came here, to talk to you, my friend.”  My friend just sat across the table from me and stared.  
After taking inventory of my story on a napkin, he looked up and said.  “So, you are telling me that you are schizophrenic, your shampoo talks and that multiple shampooings make more bubbles?”
A little puzzled, I replied, “Well, there’s that, but did you miss the main focus?  The part about how all the lights in my house are burnt out because I spend too much time flipping them on and off?  You really should pay more attention when supposedly listening to your friends.”

i got the strange urge to get my R/C truck(s) running again, because stuff.  so i stopped at Everything Hobby to pick up some gas, and got gas.  then i came home, un-boxed them and they wouldn’t run.  : (

so i started trying to fix whatever was wrong and it took a long time, but it eventually started (the compression and fuel mixture was off if you needed to know…).  that made me happy.  then i looked outside, and it made me sad, because it is dark.  and dark means poor visibility.  poor visibility means running into trees and breaking stuff (trust me, it does).  so, i will have to wait till tomorrow. 

(think orbit gum…)

driving a clean car is always more fun. 

those of you who read digg a lot may remember a submission about a guy who took pictures of gamers and became a wizard.  or maybe just kinda famous.  or really famous.  or all three.  anyway, if you didn’t, check his site out: www.todddeutch.com  a handful of his pictures can be viewed there, including some selected from the Gamers collection.

well, i met him today. and he gave a lecture about his photography and it was really cool. 

i was cleaning out my pocket just now, because it was full of stuff, and pulled out a couple quarters and close to a trillion dimes.  usually i dont have any dimes, ever.  they just seem to be magically not needed in my monetary transactions.  then my pocket was empty, and i stood up, and there was a quiet jingle, and it turned out i had about a half trillion more dimes in my pocket, adding to the weirdness, because, they were dimes.  just dimes and quarters is all i had.  no nickels or pennies or golden dollars.  a trillion and a half dimes and a couple quarters.

seriously, who has a trillion and a half dimes on them at any given time?  apparenty, me.