Lumberjacks
The lumberyard was nearly empty; it was, after all, the end of the fiscal quarter. Why would anyone hang out there? Besides myself, I mean. The office folk designated me to personally make the long and perilous trek to the lumberyard in search of coal to burn during the harsh autumn. We're very environmentally conscious, so the lumberyard we use has to have a reputation for being humane with the trees. If word got out that we were dealing with lumberjacks that took joy in the destruction of the great sequoia, it would easily become the worst public relations fiasco of the haydecade. And by worst, I mean best.
I can picture it now: me, standing at a podium in the Ronald Reagan Memorial Environmental Center, getting ready to accept the Humane Society's award for proper hygiene. But hark- off in the distance, a lumberjack chuckles mercilessly as an endangered square-rooted sabre-oak falls to the forest floor. Stripped of my honor, I'm forced to resign in disgrace, shunned by my family and/or coworkers. Fruitless, it seems, would be my pitiful explanation that I had nothing to do with the unemotional logger. "If only I'd known my company had hired an unauthorized person to log endangered trees with glee!" I'd cry. Then the bouncer would tell me to get lost, or he'd put a fist in my knee. The fool- I have no knees.
My entire body is the product of pure thought. You can't dilute that, despite what some keynote government motivational speakers would like you to believe. In the spirit of friendship and father-son bonding, I extended an olive branch to them all back in the 80s. The 1780s, right before the constitution was written. But they all spat on me- even Thomas Jefferson. And I carried him, man. Without me to supply a sleepy young Jefferson with coffee from the future, he never would have written the Declaration of Independence, the United States would never have purchased Louisiana from France, and Darth Vader would've been real. And did they even ask me if I might've wanted my face carved into Mt. Rushmore?! Bah! I don't need their pity. I'm immortal.
I can picture it now: me, standing at a podium in the Ronald Reagan Memorial Environmental Center, getting ready to accept the Humane Society's award for proper hygiene. But hark- off in the distance, a lumberjack chuckles mercilessly as an endangered square-rooted sabre-oak falls to the forest floor. Stripped of my honor, I'm forced to resign in disgrace, shunned by my family and/or coworkers. Fruitless, it seems, would be my pitiful explanation that I had nothing to do with the unemotional logger. "If only I'd known my company had hired an unauthorized person to log endangered trees with glee!" I'd cry. Then the bouncer would tell me to get lost, or he'd put a fist in my knee. The fool- I have no knees.
My entire body is the product of pure thought. You can't dilute that, despite what some keynote government motivational speakers would like you to believe. In the spirit of friendship and father-son bonding, I extended an olive branch to them all back in the 80s. The 1780s, right before the constitution was written. But they all spat on me- even Thomas Jefferson. And I carried him, man. Without me to supply a sleepy young Jefferson with coffee from the future, he never would have written the Declaration of Independence, the United States would never have purchased Louisiana from France, and Darth Vader would've been real. And did they even ask me if I might've wanted my face carved into Mt. Rushmore?! Bah! I don't need their pity. I'm immortal.
--The Taker of Gist | 9:18 PM
5 broke it down:
That reminds me of that old song, "The Gisty-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands".
Quite a story, she had. That's right, I knew the Gisty-Eyed Lady.
Only back then, she was known as Barbella deOverture, and her teeth were the color and hue of raw sushi.
This was in the time before dental hygienists became vogue.
I got an old neighbor lady...looks a lot like Gist....with all the spots and possible wrinkles.
You ever watch National Treasure? I thought I saw a picture of Gist drawn on the back of the Declaration.
I thought you were on Rushmore? I need a new history book.
History is written by those who doubt the iron will of kings and fools!
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