Deep In The Heart Of Gist

So the other day this guy from the depths of the ocean just drags himself out of the water and walks up to the Gist mill. So I go out onto the porch to greet him. And how does he say hello? By taking out some gold from his pocket and giving it to me! I was all like, "Where did you get that gold?!" And he was all, "Look, you want the gold or not? 'Cause I don't have all day. I just need to get rid of this before the pirates come looking for it."

Because it turned out that this mermaid guy, this gold-giver, stole the gold from a surly band of meta-pirates. The "meta" implies that they hold some kind of transcendence, which indeed they do. Pirates are rare in this day and age. I mean, sure, there are MP3 pirates and other file sharers, but they don't possess the sheer greatness of the bloodthirsty barons of the sea from the 17^th century. I mean, back then they would demand a ransom of 50,000 pesos or they'd burn your city. And that's what they'd do to the good cities. The ones where royalty lived. If your city was poor, they probably wouldn't bother. I mean, would you? If you were a pirate?

I never did see that ocean guy again. I heard he got caught in a tuna net and sold in a bunch of cans. They do that, you know. With dolphins. And sea cows. They just capture them, because the oceanliners'll just end up hitting' them in the head and sinking them anyway. If you don't capture all the whales, where's the meat supposed to come from, eh? In Japan, they eat all parts of the whale. It's a delicacy there. Whale meat, more delicious than a thousand pounds of lobster. I hate lobster. Too many bones. What's that, Edmonde? No, I will not include you in this post! I hate you and everything you stand for, because you are a bad worker and you don't file your income taxes in a timely manner! What? I did? Curse your eyes, Edmonde!

Clang Clang

Toot! The work bell ends for the day. But what was I doing the whole time, you ask? What? Why don't you ask me these things? Don't you realize that I do things each day that implicate you and anyone you come into contact with in major operations? I totally saw that coming, man. I went in today, into the Gist mill, and I walked right up to James Buchanan. I got all up in his face, and I was like, "You couldn't stop the civil war, so why should I give you my tax dollars?! I spend weeks writing Gist to keep people like you out of society!" And then I spit on his grave, the louse. 'Cause he died a hundred and fifty years ago.

People didn't live a long time back then. I remember it distinctly, since I'm over a hundred years old. I'm a memory. A remembrance. I remember the things that others forget on account of being morons or dead. You see, my friends, it wasn't always like it is now. I remember seeing this guy get torn in half by a dinosaur. Seriously. I was going to work one day, and this pterodactyl swoops out of the sky and rips this guy in half. It was the coolest thing I ever saw.

And then, a couple of years later, I was talking to Thomas Jefferson, and I was all like, "We need to concentrate power with the farmers. If we don't, they'll become influential primary voters and quench any kind of positive reform." He just stared at me and laughed. The man stuttered a lot, but that doesn't mean much to me. I mean, Porky Pig is funny, but it's a real problem for some people. Especially Thomas Jefferson. But I convinced him to start the Democratic Party. Then a few decades later, I convinced Abraham Lincoln to start the Republican Party, just to see 'em fight. I'm totally cool.

I Lie In Wait

Sitting next to this wall, I'm constantly reminded of the loss of my dear horoscope. Why didn't I clip it out? That paper that it was in, I knew it was wrong. I knew from the date. It said the year was 2003. But that was a long time ago. Longer then is now. But all I remember was peering out from behind the molding on my bedroom door, and seeing this hulking figure ripping the horoscope out of the tabloids. How frightened I was! Bigfoot only comes by after 7 at night, and this was 6 in the morning, so although it was still technically after 7 at night, I still had my doubts that it was Bigfoot.

After all, Bigfoot always leaves behind a couple of bucks if he breaks anything. This guy just tore my horoscope out and ran off into the woods. I didn't get a good look at him, but I think he kind of looked like he was from Kentucky. He had "Kentucky Legs." Don't ask. But why would this guy from Kentucky steal a page out of my paper? I don't think it was just for the horoscope. The other side of the page was full of KFC coupons. And so I put two and two together: a guy from Kentucky steals Kentucky Fried Chicken coupons. It all made sense.

The guy was so totally homesick for his native Kentucky that he wanted to eat a big ol' bucket of chicken. But being from Kentucky, he didn't speak blogtopian. That's the language I speak. Blogtopian. So like any Kentuckian, he ripped out my horoscope along with his ill-gotten coupons. I didn't really want the coupons but- who am I kidding?! The Taker of Gist loves fried chicken! So if that guy ever reads this, give me back my horoscope and my coupons. And that's about the Gist of what I wanted to say.

Dustbowl Redux

I saw Colonel Chickenpox today. It was at the mall. He was all like, "I'm ignoring you." I don't know what his problem is. I mean, yeah I melted him, but I knew that he'd come back to life through the cloning process. It's idiot-proof, really. So I walked right up to him next to the dollar store, and I just flat out asked him: "Colonel, what do you think of this weather?"

And he looked up at me, with tears in his eyes. This was because he got into a fight with this Oompa Loompa a week ago. Being color blind, Chickenpox had no idea the guy was an Oompa Loompa, but he knew right after they started fighting. It was all "duh!" Everyone knows Oompa Loompas have super strength. So the Colonel and this Oompa started throwing each other against the wall of this Burger King, and the next thing either of them know, this huge cloud descends over them. It was this super dust thing, I heard. The sky was all pink, and it hadn't rained in weeks. This caused the topsoil to evaporate.

"The weather? You really want to know about the weather?" asked Colonel Chickenpox again. He took out his corn cob pipe and started playing a tune on his harmonica. Then he glanced up at me and stared right into my soul. I started getting angry for no reason, and grabbed his peg leg. As I ran away, I could hear him screaming in Norwegian. So I headed back and threw his wooden leg right at him. I started saying something like, "You're so cheap! Everyone says you take money from the penny tray at the gas station!" But he couldn't hear me. He had already remelted. So I walked away.

Who Is The Man Behind The Curtain?

The wizard of Oz is infinitely not better than Batman. I mean, if you put the wizard and Batman together in a room, and sealed it up, and left them there for a month, Batman would be the only survivor. He'd probably snap the wizard's neck and cannibalize him. Disgusting, yes, but the only course of survival. Now, if you put Batman in a sealed room with Superman, there'd be no problem. Old Superman would just blast a hole in the wall with his fists.

But no matter how great Superman is, he can never be president of the United States. It's true. He wasn't born here. He's totally from Krypton. And it says in the constitution that if you weren't born in America, you can't be president. So even if Superman was, like, the front runner candidate, and everyone wanted to vote for him, he still couldn't be president. He could be vice president, but what kind of idiot would want to have the tie-breaking vote in the Senate? That's crazy talk.

Only someone as sick in the head as the wizard of Oz would want that translucent responsibility. I mean, the man drowned puppies for fun. It was edited out in the reprints, though. But if you get your hands on an original copy of the "Wizard of Oz", you'd see, and I quote, "...down to the river with them. For they that were the weakest of the litter would be disposed of properly, as was due course. The Wizard was wise in all ways, and knew the ponderous nature of the dogs would not allow for future prosperity." Don't blame me, man. I just read it.

Edmonde Returns With Gold!

Edmonde, my fiercest foe, has returned from the winter Olympics. Not only that, but the moron won a gold medal for some stupid thing. I don't know if it was for figure skating or logging, but the fool got a gold medal. Now, I'm not one for accusations, but I think it's rather odd that all his competition fell ill the day before the competition. Don't you agree, fellow sentoids?

Not only that, but authorities found that quite some time ago, Edmonde was involved in a robbery. Mine. I was walking along, minding my own business, and all of a sudden, George Bush pops out from behind a tree. I'm all like, "Are you really the president?" And he just started rambling in an incomprehensible Scottish drawl, which is strange since he never lived anywhere near the United Kingdom. Not like Edmonde... which caused me to suddenly get suspicious. The last time George Bush popped out from behind a tree and started ranting at me in some weird foreign accent, he at least had the courtesy to not threaten to stick me with a shiv.

As I was handing George Bush my wallet (to avoid getting stuck with the shiv), Edmonde ran out from behind the same tree and grabbed it right out of Bush's hand. Then they ran off together, singing "Henry the Eighth, I am, I am!" Ever since then, I've started to doubt that I can trust any government that works in collaboration with Edmonde. I mean, Edmonde just has no sense of direction. He can't be reached by conventional means. And now that he has Congress behind him, Edmonde's ego has just been unbearable. No sense of Gist at all.

"Don't Touch That Button!"

I kept yelling at him, but he wouldn't let go of the button. "That thing's connected to the power supply!" I screamed. But to no avail. He was too far gone. His eyes, like milky eggs on the sidewalk of America's cleanest city, were an ugly shade of off-white. His arm, the one that wasn't torn off, was hanging limp at his side. He looked up at me with his dead eyes, and shouted, "I said 'medium rare!' This isn't fillet mignon!" Then he threw the plate right on the ground. How sad, I thought. Now nobody would eat that steak.

So I picked it up and dusted it off. Still good. I chopped the steak into little slices and put them on Italian bread, or maybe French bread. I wasn't thinking too clearly at the time, since I'd just received a heart transplant from a parrot. So the whole time I was walking around going "Polly gots a steak!" And all these people would come up to me on the street and say, "What's wrong with you? Stop talking like a parrot." But I couldn't, since the DNA was already fused by now.

But getting back to the button, I told that guy never to show his face in that joint again. I said, in 1930s speak, "Get on the trolley, Marty!" But since his name wasn't Marty, he just completely ignored me and kept pushing the button. That's when I lost it and started bellowing, "Your salary pays my taxes!" That's when the feds broke it up.

My Little Toe

This one time, I was coming home from work, and this guy just walked up to me and said, "Hey! You got change for a fifty?" And I was all, like, "No. Why don't you come over here and I'll use my little toe to show you how I feel about people who ask me for change?" But this guy was like, a wrestler or something, and he did this body slam on me and broke my arm.

So I sued him for every penny he had. Then I spent all the money investing in this really bad condo deal thing. I remember yelling at my broker. He was telling me that it was a scam, but I didn't believe him. I still don't, even though they stole all my money. It was the way the world worked back then. You'd go to work, come home, get in a fight with this little guy over your big toe, or conversely, the other way around, and then you'd end up in a bad condo deal. I never did see my little toe defeat that guy.

But I made sure that wouldn't happen again. I went to that guy's house after it was repossessed by the bank, and I wrote down his license plate number. Then I pasted that number into a crime data bank, and it turned out he was wanted in Canada for smuggling thousands of dollars worth of Canadian dollars across the border. So I challenged him to fight for the honor of Canada. I guess he hates Canada, since he didn't fight back. So I called my Canadian friends, and they called their members of parliament, and to give you the Gist of what happened, he was extradited. That really happened. Don't question it.

Happy Valentine's Day, You Fool!

This day is the day of St. Valentine's birth. Or maybe not. They didn't keep accurate records back then. For all we know, he was entombed on this date. They really did entomb people back then. Just look at that story, "Cask of Amontillado". That guy was totally entombed. It happens all the time. They would just look at you and say, "I don't like you. You have offended me! My family's honor demands vengeance!" And then they would grab you and put you in this thing and bury you in the ground.

But we live in a civilized time, these days. You can't just go around and bury people in caskets because they insult your family. These days, you've gotta go to their boss and say, "This guy was totally going through your desk while you were out sick yesterday." It's true. If you tell someone that their employee was rifling through their desk, that could get them fired. It's a question of privacy. You just don't want anyone going through your papers. It doesn't matter if you don't have anything on the big account, you just don't want anyone—such as Edmonde—going through your office without telling you. That guy was asking for it again.

Like I said before, I own a Gist mill. And Edmonde was at it again, going through my desk. I was all, "You don't work here anymore!" And he was all, "I don't care. This is where my father worked, and his father before him. But not my great grandfather. That guy worked on a farm in Kentucky." Then I snapped and melted Edmonde. Just like I did to Colonel Chickenpox. By the way, that Colonel turned out to be only a Captain. Like he could get away with that kind of misrepresentation! You don't go around impersonating a Colonel. Only Generals can do that, because they're superior in rank. They also drive tanks to work. That's why Edmonde will never be a Colonel; he doesn't know how to drive a tank. The fool.

A Tome For The World

This post is totally not like the last one. The last one lacked the emotion and discipline common to the large variety of plants found outside my home. My home? You want to know where I live? I live anywhere I lay my head. I'm like the pioneers. They had no idea where they were going, but I do. I know exactly where I'm going because the pioneers went the same way hundreds of years ago.

But back then, all they had were knapsacks and gold and grandfather clocks. They completely lacked what we know recognize as the vast intellectual superiority of T1 information networks. I can count on one finger the number of pioneers who bravely and recklessly suggested switching to a high speed LAN. See, they had no idea of the wonders that we enjoy today. Medicine and heating oil were a mystery to them.

So the next time you see a 19^th century pioneer just walking around on the streets, you gotta smack 'em upside the head and yell "you think it's fun to shoot buffalo?! They almost went extinct, you fool!" That'll teach 'em to keep making buffalo wings without the sauce. They should be ashamed to call themselves outdoorsmen, that's for sure.

Burning Question For Edmonde

Who does this "Edmonde" think he is?! He think he can just walk up to me on the streets of the Land of Silt, and ask for a job in the Gist mill?! Gist is a very complicated doohickey. You can't just walk around and let the Gist fall where it may. Gist needs to be handled by specially trained civilians, and I don't think he's got what it takes to be a Gistologist.

Not that I've got anything against Edmonde. I think he's a hard worker. His resumé was full of typos, and I think he said he ripped off his last boss. That's the main reason I didn't hire him. Also, he smelled like rotten fish and burning hair. So instead of telling him off to his face, I think I'll write this whole thing telling people that Edmonde is yesterday's news. He hasn't come up with a new idea in weeks, and I don't think I want him on staff anymore. He routinely yells at the customers. He takes company property home with him. I mean, they're just tissue boxes, but rules are rules.

You can't do that. And you can't get away with it, either. I saw what Edmonde was doing in the alley. He was totally selling that tissue box to our rivals. That's industrial espionage, Edmonde! I'm so going to the feds and ratting you out. But before I do that, I just want to know: where did you leave the remote? We can't change the channel, and you're the last one to use it.

This Is The Future!

How many times has it been said: the future is now? Well, they're right. They're all right. The future is now. Actually, the future was yesterday. You totally missed it, because you weren't paying attention. Maybe next time you'll think before you ignore life.

That brings me to my next point. The blogosphere, as an entitiy, is devoid of meaning. Some people try to say, "what do you mean the blogosphere has no meaning? The blogosphere is infinite!" To which I would reply, "you don't know nothin', youse fool!" The blogosphere is as pointless as a dog on a spinning top wearing a tutu. Still don't believe me? Fool! I am the Taker of Gist! You can't deny that, though you may want to. That's right, and more than that, I am the Maker of Gist. The Maker and the Taker and the Baker and the Raker and the Shaker of the Gist.

Don't try to comprehend it, your brain will just implode. Or explode. Or some plode in the middle. Point is, it's not a pretty sight. Point is, if you keep your head down and your nose clean, you might make it through my lair without distrubing the piles of Gist that I leave all over the place. Seriously, watch out for the Gist. It takes forever to get them sorted again after someone messes them up. So just watch it.

It Takes A Bold Stand

Writing in bold reminds me of Colonel Chickenpox. Why couldn't he just leave well enough alone?! If he hadn't boldfaced, he'd still be captain of the flagship. But, the fool just had to insult me with his constant boldening. So I melted him.

You got a problem with that?! 'Cause I'll melt you too, man. I'll melt you into gold dust. That's what Colonel Chickenpox is, now, he's gold dust. I willed it, and it came to be. Maybe next time he'll think before he starts in with the hypertext tags. The fool.

Where was I? Oh, yes. The boldening. Don't go bold. Use italics, whenever possible. Boldface just cheapens your words. You'll never catch me boldening my words. Just italicize. And if you think it's spelled "italisise," you're dead wrong. Nobody spells it that way. I should know, I invented spellling. The Taker hast spaketh!

Is It Snowing Where You Are?

I take your grist.
I write a list.
I make a fist.
I grab your wrist.

How 'bout a twist?
You see the mist?
Stop and desist!
It's ol' Paul Whist!

And that's the gist.