Firetrucks Make Good Pets

I had a firetruck when I was ten years old. It was the summer of love, and I was in love with my new firetruck. Old Reddy, I'd call it. We went everywhere together. Even down to the old creek. That's where an ancient Inca necktie was buried, I'd heard. We went looking for signs of some Paleolithic civilization, to no avail. Old Reddy was in no mood for failure, so while I went to turn back, he kept on driving. "No, Reddy! Come back! You're going too far into the creek," I cried. But it was too late. He was gone, gone forever, washed away in a flash flood.

I never got over Old Reddy. I bought a new firetruck, a taxi, and a double-decker bus. No chemistry at all. Stayed up late a couple of nights, praying for Reddy to come home. He never did. Days turned into weeks and again into years. When I was coming home from graduation, I stopped by the old creek. Found a rusted out wheel. It was a somber moment, pierced only by the humming of the engine. "Leave the firetruck," purred the Honda. "You don't need some old childhood specter driving you insane."

"Never talk about Old Reddy like that in my presence again!" I screamed, whipping my head around. Silence. When I turned back to the creek, the wheel was gone, floated away on a thin stream of oil. Oil leaking out of... Old Reddy! Oh, you're alive! I'd thought I'd lost you long ago... what? I- I don't understand. Wha- it was all a lie? Yes, it's all starting to add up. The sleepless nights... the constant moaning outside my windows... I'm the victim of an eternity-long practical joke! This will not stand. I want my lawyer. Who said I forfeited my movie rights? Someone get me a pen.

Learning Annex

You can annex territories. You can annex museums. But can you annex your mind? That's the one thing I've never been able to find out in all the years I've spent taking the Gist of things. So I went down to the Learning Annex, looking for a good time. And boy, did I find it. They had a huge piñata full of candy! I remember running back and forth, trying to smack that thing out of the sky. Then we all ran to get the candy as if dropped to the ground. I refused to continue the fruitless endeavor. It just wasn't possible to get at the candy until after the three second rule had expired. Maybe in some twisted filth dimension the three second rule is extended to five or even ten seconds, but in this day and age, we take germs very seriously.

Not like back during the dark ages. Back then, you didn't take baths. You didn't wash your hands. If you got the plague, they'd throw you onto a pile of rotting compost and wait for the carrion birds to peck your eyes out. Unpleasant? You bet it was! I can't even count on one hand how many times I was mistaken for a plague victim and thrown into a pile of filth. But we don't live in such barbaric times, now, do we? No, we live in the future. Any day now, we'll all be driving flying cars and living above the clouds, relaxing as robotic butlers hand us the Sunday paper.

But can robot butlers really be trusted? I mean, in all the great plays throughout history, it's always the butler who done it. And in all the novels about robots, there's always the risk of a rebellion. So why would anyone want to combine the two most malevolent professions in all of civilization, butlery and robotics? That's like giving a spider monkey a lit candle and saying "Don't set fire to your arms." You just know they will! Not kosher at all.

Play It Again

Pushing the buttons on my VCR is quite a thrill these days. With DVD coming to the- oh, who am I kidding? Everyone uses DVD. There is not a single person in the civilized world who is without knowledge of the superiority of the DVD. I mean, a DVD can last for thousands of years without its quality degrading. Yes, yes, I know that the tag line says "be kind, rewind" but is that even necessary? With DVD, the rewinding part is moot. A DVD does not need to be rewound, ever.

But Edmonde just rewinds it anyway, for no reason at all. I think he does it out of spite. He's like that. It's why his wife left him, why he can't hold down a steady job, and why his insurance provider dropped him. The man is among the worst offenders I've ever seen in all my years on the bench. I walked into the mill the other day, went into my office, and there he was. Rewinding. I was so enraged, I screamed, "Edmonde, you fool! Why are you rewinding a DVD?! You do not need to do that!" But he just stared at me with those coal-black eyes of his, and with a steely undertone, laughed, "Hee hee! That's right, I'm rewinding a DVD! What are you going to do, fire me?"

And I would have too, on the spot, but something was gnawing at me. So instead of firing him, I promoted him to senior management. When he pulled that DVD rewinding thing on the board of directors, they tore him to pulpy shreds. Greatest plan I ever had. I only wish it was yesterday, so I could do it all over again. Still, with the regenerative properties of the Gist, he'll be back up and rewinding again in no time at all. And I'll be waiting, cheese grater at the ready.

The Phone

Who invented the telephone? It's not a particularly important invention, after all. When I think back on all the times I've used a phone, versus the times I've sent a telegraph, the comparison ratio is just so severely skewed that it makes no sense to count the phone at all. Back before Edison, before Graham Bell and Bell Atlantic, before Verizon and Sprint, there was only ol' Ben Franklin. Now there's a man who knew how to tame lightning. I'd go over to his house ever week for a good old-fashioned 18^th century barbeque.

Back in the time before soap, they sure knew how to barbeque. I'd go to Franklin's once a week, but I also went to Madison's mansion all the time for a little R & R. James Madison. Fourth President of the United States. There's a city named after him in one of the western territories. What? It's a state now? I have been out of the loop. I can't remember the last time I mistook a state for a territory, unless you count that brief period in 1959 after Alaska became a state but before Hawaii. I mean, how was I supposed to know they were states?! They weren't connected to the mainland! I still don't consider them fully fledged states. Colonial possessions, I say.

Of course that's not to say I wouldn't want to vacation there. Well, maybe not Alaska. Years of Gistology have made me immune to the cold, but I just can't risk running into a polar bear. Polar bears run a very tidy little operation up there. Once they get your number, forget it, it's all over. They've got a file on me a mile long. I really want to go see some glacial action, but I just don't want to get the bum's rush from the polar bears again. Last time they almost got me deported. Too risky. Not risqué, just risky.

Kitty Litter Reborn

So how many pounds of kitty litter does it take to rule the world? I only ask because about a ton of it fell out of the sky and onto my car. Seriously, why would a ton of kitty litter fall from the sky? Who would believe me? All I was doing was minding my own business, which is a nice change of pace. So there I was. It was the middle of July. The sun was shining and it was raining cats and dogs. And kitty litter. Also, this guy parked next to me got hit in the head by a flying mailbox. Not the kind that you have outside your house that they put letters in, but the big kind they have outside post offices. This guy was just standing there, and a huge mailbox just knocks him over. He was all, like, "Help! Help me! Stop taking pictures!"

Because the whole time he was getting knocked over by that mailbox, I was busy pulling out my digital camera and taking pictures of his misery. What? Should I have helped him? Do I look like the miracle worker to you people?! I'm the Taker of Gist! It is not in any way, shape, or form, my duty to provide for the populace. I pay taxes for that kind of thing. And if you end up short in the lottery of life, well, you should just sit down and try your luck again. It's a little thing I like to call "reincarnation." Maybe you've heard of it?

So there I was, taking pictures of this guy under a mailbox. And there he was, screaming for help. That's when I started getting angry. I started to remember all the times I had been trapped under a mailbox, screaming in vain for help. Why should this guy I don't even know get help, when nobody would brave the winds to rescue me after I was pinned beneath an ice cream truck back in the 18^th century? It's not like it was that heavy to lift. This was the 18^th century! They didn't even bathe! I mean, what kind of society lets you get all trapped under the wheels of a machine that hasn't been invented yet?! I ask you. Anyway, turns out that guy was a robot with no soul, so it's a good thing I didn't save him. The fool.

The Invading Force

Running a Gist mill is like running a well-tuned army. You have no way of knowing when something will go horribly wrong, or when you'll win or lose. You need to keep on your toes. Toes? I don't have toes. The Taker of Gist does not need toes, for I hover over the ground on a complex propulsion system. Wait. No, that's not true at all. Of course I walk! I have legs. I'm a human being! You can't tell me that just because my face is distorted and orange with- what is that, pink dots? Yeah, that's an avatar all right. I made it myself.

Good with my hands, I am. Carved a whole mountain out to look like Elvis. Why Elvis? He's the king! Yeah, the Beatles were good, too. But only Elvis knew how to make it rain Diet Coke. Yes. He did. He'd get up each morning, jam on his guitar, and then go do a rain dance. But instead of rain, soda would pour from the sky. At first I didn't believe it. I thought he was a charlaton, making smoke and mirrors. But after I got to know him on a personal level, I came to see that magic is all around us.

Take Gist, for example. What is Gist? Gist is undefinable. Indefinite. Infinite. You can't put a price on it, as it is intangible. So how do I take something that has no form? A better question would be, "What makes the sun burn so brightly?" Fusion, baby. Nuclear fusion. And that's the Gist.

Cross-Post Fever

What's all this I hear about someone going to one blog, writing an essay, and then posting the exact same essay on another blog? That's just wrong. You write a post, who cares if you write the same one? People in this day and age don't care about that kind of plagiarism. They have no morals. Not like myself. I'm a fully licensed hipocrite. I have the legal backing to backpedal on anything I say or do, because I'm always right. Unless it turns out I was wrong, in which case I never meant anything that I said.

Not many people would have a problem with something like that. I mean, in this day and age, with supercomputers that compute the largest prime numbers, do we really have time to quarrel over the simple things in life? Prime numbers are far more important than the hurt feelings that result from a heated argument. Wounded pride? More like wounded knee. That was a battle, wasn't it? Yes, it was a battle in the late 19^th century between the settlers and the indigenous people of the American west. Why did the settlers so despise the ghost dance? It wasn't anything of great import. It was a formality, really. You don't go into a gas station and say, "Why aren't you dancing?" See? It just doesn't look good, forcing people to dance. That's why it wasn't a constitutional requirement.

But what constitutes a constitutional requirement? I know. You know how, in the backs of books, there exists indicies? Yes, indicies. The plural of index. I like words that sound like that, ending in the letter "X" and whatnot. Is whatnot even a word?! But getting back to the indicies, they contain references to various parts of the book. Even have page numbers! What more could the avid reader hope for? Someone to hold their hand while they read? I can't imagine a more pathetic person. That's why I think books are bad for you. Especially if you regularly read in the dark. That's just bad for your eyes.

We Meet Again

Hello there, Edmonde. It's nice to see you again. Hah! Way back when, we were partners, you and I. Worked together on many, many projects for the Gist mill. You always were the smart one, toiling day and night, finding favor with management. Oh, how the tables have turned. Now it is I who stands atop the social pyramid. And down there, at the bottom, you wallow in a pile of your own filth. You should have married into royalty, Edmonde. That's what I did, and it turned my life around.

Why, I remember the first time you were promoted ahead of me. Remember that, Edmonde? Summer of '69. 1869, that is. We're both immortals here, you can say it. 1869. The end of the Civil War. Reconstruction. That contract was mine, Edmonde. You knew how hard I worked, sweet talking General Grant with visions of grandeur. You knew how many hours I put into convincing the Senate to go with us. But then you, like a spring chicken on a winter day, came in and ruined everything. I had them in my pocket, don't you understand?! The whole thing... gone. Because of you.

I don't know what came over me that night, Edmonde. But somehow, somehow I knew that you would double-cross me. That's why I gave all the money to the vicar. None of the ill-gotten gold left for you, for either of us, now. Oh, yes, my friend, fate can be ironic. Where once you were the envy of all, now stands (or, rather, crouches) before me a coward. You'll never see that, will you? Never see what you've become. Too bad. I'm telling mom.

Press Conference

Edmonde held a press conference today to announce that he was stepping down as CEO. I didn't believe him, naturally. I don't trust anything he says anymore. Not since back in the third grade, when he sold me seeds to his alleged "hot dog tree." I planted those seeds. I waited five, six weeks. Nothing. I've never been so disappointed in my life. That's why I chose to avenge myself today, at the press conference. When Edmonde was reading off the reasons why he couldn't take charge, I snuck up behind him and smacked him in the back of the head.

Petty? No, I wouldn't dream of taking a third grade squabble out on an acting CEO. What Edmonde did was much more recent. Do you remember last year, when scientists kept saying global warming was going to have dire consequences on society? Hurricanes and the like. Anyway, Edmonde went to those scientists' houses, and he like, he got in the back of a pickup truck, and when to all their houses and played golf on their lawns. That's just trespassing, and it's illegal. I don't know about you, but when someone (or something) comes onto my lawn and starts playing a game that originated in Scotland, I get angry. Not because I've got anything against the people of Scotland. Because I've got a problem with the Scottish parliament.

What is up with the Scottish parliament? I mean, come on. It's the 21^st century. Are we supposed to believe that Scotland didn't have a sovereign parliament until just a few years ago? Come on! I've seen Braveheart, I know how much Scotland fought for independence from the English. And then about a hund- two hund- three hundred years ago, they just become part of England? British Empire my ear! Bah, you wait three hundred years before reasserting your right to sovereignty? What is this, the Basque separatist movement of Spain? Just accept the British parliament and stop wasting our time with your fancy haggis. End of story.

I Saw Your Parents Today

They weren't too proud of you, visiting my blog and all. They were all, "<YOUR NAME HERE>, who is this Taker of Gist I keep hearing about?! And why does he so hate the ampersand?!" That's right. Deal with it. The ampersand is the most useless character in the English language. Hundreds of years ago, this pathetic glyph was actually the long-fabled 27^th letter. Right after "Z." The song would go, "...X, Y, Z, and per se and." Because all those years ago, ampersand wasn't just one word. It was the derivation of a whole Latin thingy.

And that's why I hate the ampersand. Trust me on this, I'm a noted English professor at the University of Shut Up. I've spent the last 200 years discerning the history of the ampersand in modern society, and the results are more than shocking. Apparently, nobody remembers the true spirit of the ampersand. Originally, the ampersand was meant as a replacement for the word "and." How do I know this? Because sadly, it was I who invented the ampersand. Back in the middle ages, I was all, "Hey, you know what Old English really needs? The ampersand character! Also, we need some silent letters. Old English doesn't have any silent letters, and I think that's the only way we can defeat the French."

Because back during the dark ages, it wasn't enough that you be superior militarily to your enemy. You had to have a superior language, which required all kinds of crazy syntax rules and letters. Back then, English didn't even have a word for the computer. Shocking! Scandalous! Salacious! Anyway, the ampersand helped us win the Great War. But then it started getting uppity, demanding a bigger piece of the pie. Before long, the ampersand was strutting around like it owned the place. That's why we need to stop it before it gets the bomb.

Colonel Chickenpox To The Rescue!

"Where do you think you came from?" asked Colonel Chickenpox. I knew that this wouldn't end well. He's been getting very angry lately, since he came back to life. I think he remembers what happened. I think he remembers that I was the one who sold him out. The one who told his family where they could find him. But they were concerned! I mean, the guy's getting old. His family needs to know where he is. And I don't think he should be driving any more. He's very old, and his eyesight is getting dimmer each day. But he won't hear any of it.

It's a very sad sight, that old Colonel. He once, during the middle of the Second World War, conquered the continent of Antarctica in the name of the United States of America. After the war, he returned there to start his family. His whole life, he dreamed of being a farmer. But once the Antarctic summer rolled around, all his crops died out. Nobody could understand it. They ever sent for the old witch doctor, Nichol Khevron, who was widely believed to be the one responsible for the drought in the Sahara.

Even with the modern conveniences such as lightning rods and plows, Colonel Chickenpox couldn't bring his farm to life. So he just left it. He wandered out into the middle of the Ross Ice Shelf and almost threw himself in the ocean. But then, at that moment, a magical fairy revealed itself to him and told him to dig right under his porch. He did, and found a million tons of silver. He was rich! But did he share any of it with his family? No. He left them there in Antarctica and went to Las Vegas to spend his fortune on the slots. That's why his family wants to know where he is, so they can shake him down for his pixie silver. Also, Colonel Chickenpox fought a gang of scurvy pirates. But that's a story for another time.

Like, Totally!

I was totally walking through this hole in time the other day, and I, like, fell through this thing in there. I can't describe it, 'cause it wasn't a linear event. It was very metaphysical and abnormal, and no one that I know went through anything like it. The thing, it was like, round and blurry. I distinctly remember graham crackers and some milk, so at first I thought I was at some kid's birthday party.

That's when all the trouble started. This whole plane of transcendence just fell over on me, and I just started screaming, "I am the Taker of Gist! You can't treat me like that!" And then I just started firing off my laser beam eyes all over the place. It was like at the end of Superman 2. Or maybe Superman 3. Or the original. The Gist of it was, I totally saw through it all. I figured out what was happening.

It wasn't even real. It was the bridge between the dream world and the waking world; how else can you explain the graham cracker smell? I sure can't. And neither could Abe Lincoln. Yup, ol' honest Abe was there. Who did you think brought the graham crackers? George Washington? Abe told me all about Washington. "Sharp-toothed George", he called him. I just wish it was President's Day so this thing would be over with. Then I can open my business up again. What business? It's a Gist mill.

Insane To Be Two

Who in their right mind would want to be two years old? I keep seeing these two year olds roaming the streets, and thinking to myself, "why aren't they older?" If I was two years old, I would hate it. When you're two years old, you can't count, you can't go to the movies, you can't drive, and you can't vote. I mean, there are plenty of people over 18 who don't vote. But the point is, they can. They just don't want to because they're lazy.

Like I said before, I have a real problem with Edmonde. So when he told me he wasn't going to vote for president this year, I started screaming at him. I told him that participation was what makes a good democracy work. That's when he said something along the lines of "but there's not a presidential election this year." So I totally called his mother and told her that he was involved in the theft of her lawn furniture last month (which he probably was, the scoundrel). She drove over to his house and started smacking him with her cane, which I think was how the twentieth amendment to the constitution was written. I mean, fixing the date that the president and Congress begin their terms?! What kind of madman invented that nonsense?!

Getting back to Edmonde, he sabotaged the Gist mill the other day. He left a pile of rocks on a conveyer belt, resulting in an implosion in the Gist processor. Now we can't convert Gist into meta-Gist, crucial for future consumption. Now the poor children will starve this winter! Well, it serves them right for being two. They should really know better by now. You can't change the world when you wear diapers and talk gibberish. Unless you've got a great agent. Then, my friend, it's off to Hollywood with you.

My Best Work

I must admit, when I first heard that Edmonde had to have his stomach pumped, it didn't faze me much. But once I got to know the hospital staff, I actually started to feel the pressure. Peer pressure. Why did Edmonde need his stomach pumped? Because, yesterday, when I got into the Gist mill, I specifically told him not to eat thumbtacks. Did he listen to me? No. He, in his infinite wisdom, thought it would be socially acceptable to eat a whole container of thumbtacks.

And now he's in intensive care, and he may not survive the night. Why didn't he heed my warning? I'll tell you why. The other week, I assigned him to fix a bug in the Gist matrix. It's a heavy detail job, and only someone with the experience Edmonde has with the art of metrics can accurately predict the Gist flow. That's not to say I couldn't have done it. I'm a master of the Gist. But I need to delegate, as my job is managerial in nature. So I affixed a special plaque in his honor and got back to shuffling paper around.

That's when all the madness happened. I looked out the window and saw Edmonde, his eyes red with fury, shucking corn. Now, normally, I wouldn't be against the noble practice of farming. But he took this thing too far. He demanded the other employees dress like scarecrows and keep the rabbits out of his garden. I just can't let him do that. It promotes a bad work environment. Edmonde needs to learn how to work better with others. So I signed him up for a weeklong seminar on how to cope with the utter futility of life. May the spirit of the Oak guide him in his hour of need.

Snow Is Fun

Well, snow isn't really all that fun at all. I mean, it was snowing this morning and now I've got to get home through the sleet and the slush. What do you mean it isn't snowing?! I'm looking right out the window! It's totally coming down like there's no tomorrow! It's not like I planned for this to happen. I tried to stop it from snowing. I called up the weather center, and I was all, "You need to stop snowing. You need to call up the president, and tell him to turn off the snow machine in Texas."

But they ignored my complaint, and now it's snowing cats and dogs. Scratch that. It rains cats and dogs. What does it snow? Goats? The problem I've seen with the weather is that what with global warming, nobody has time to just sit down and relax. Always running back and forth, never stopping to spray paint their mailboxes. And let me tell you, a mailbox won't paint itself. If it could, that would be awesome. But seriously, when a mailbox goes for years without being painted, it really starts to fade and look terrible. I've got this mailbox on my street that I seriously hate.

I saw it the other day, through the blizzard. It's Edmonde's mailbox, don't you know. A spitting image of an airplane, it stays motionless, staring up at each passerby with a cold, dead stare that is so common to airplane mailboxes. I really dislike being accosted by a mailbox in the shape of an airplane. It said some very hurtful things to me. Yes, I know how crazy that sounds. But I have a rare gift, the Gift of Gist, and I can hear the political opinions of mailboxes. And this one was no exception. It was ranting off on a tangent about how the flat tax pays for highways. I have no idea. I just got away from that accursed borough as fast as my locomotive system would propel me.

I Enjoy A Good Book

Reading is fun? Who says that? I'll tell you what's fun, riding around in a hovercar! Am I right, people?! Oh, there're so many things I'd do if I had a hovercar. I'd go to work in it, and everyone would tell me they wanted to ride in it, and I'd say "No! That's my hovercar! You can buy your own." Because if I can own a hovercar, they must not cost a lot, since I wouldn't spend thousands of dollars on something like that. If I bought a hovercar that cost more than a regular car, I'd have to spend extra on a whole security system, since every criminal in the area would want it.

But if everyone owned a hovercar, what would be the novelty of owning one? A hundred years ago, people didn't even ride real cars. They rode horses to work, and you don't hear them complaining about the high gas prices. Of course, horses are very expensive. And they don't live as long as cars. Cars, when properly oiled, can live forever. Horses, on the other hand, are puny animals and cannot break the sound barrier. A car can't, either, but it gets closer to it than any horse.

And sometimes horses are just trouble. I mean, in Back to the Future: Part III, the whole conflict started when a horse knocked its rider off. That rider happened to be Buford "Mad Dog" Tannen, and his gun slinging ways drove that part of the trilogy, which was excellent, by the way. I mean, the movie was shot in 1985, but some of it (in part II) took place in 2015. Hey! That's less than 10 years from now! And yet we aren't any closer to owning the holographic wallpapers that were portrayed in the movie. I feel so betrayed. And where's my hovercar?!