The Non-Posters
Now, I'm a patient man. When someone walks up behind me and slaps the back of my head, turns me around, and says "bark like a horse!" I'll be the first to oblige. There's a lot I'll put up with, being the last holdout of Byzantium and all. But then I find out the pioneer probes, the probes we sent out thirty years ago with information on our solar system, contained Pluto in our planetary layout. I find this so offensive that words cannot begin to describe the burning pain I feel right now in my left arm; we've all been betrayed by our forbearers and humiliated by circumstance.
Imagine: it's the year three million. Johnny Bug-Eyes from Nebulon 8 picks up one of the probes with his interstellar dump truck. His interest is piqued at the thought of a small, minuscule planet just beyond a series of gas giants. "Fire up the rockets, number two!" he calls down the jefferies tubes to his crack team of genetically enhanced navigators. At a moment's notice, the mighty warship (it's basically a warp-capable SUV) jumps to hyperspace. Five minutes later, the whole crew is laughing at what the "pitiful meat creatures" thought constituted a planet in 1977. Just for good measure, they blow up the sun. Hope you're happy, NASA.
You'd think nothing could possibly make me madder than the thought of alien forces blowing up the sun. If that's what you honestly thought, then you, sir, don't know me at all. See, I was frequenting a blog the other day, one that hadn't been updated in quite some time. A new bold post suddenly blared 'cross my monitor, all sparky and whatnot. And then... the nerve of this guy... he keeps talking like he never even stopped blogging. I mean, this guy let his blog go to seed for slightly over a month, and then with no explanation or warning, bang zoom, he's back. Makes me sick to my four stomachs. I have never witnessed such blind ostentatiousness and lived to tell the tale. Still, he made up for it by personally coming to my house and painting my mailbox a lovely shade of pistachio.
Imagine: it's the year three million. Johnny Bug-Eyes from Nebulon 8 picks up one of the probes with his interstellar dump truck. His interest is piqued at the thought of a small, minuscule planet just beyond a series of gas giants. "Fire up the rockets, number two!" he calls down the jefferies tubes to his crack team of genetically enhanced navigators. At a moment's notice, the mighty warship (it's basically a warp-capable SUV) jumps to hyperspace. Five minutes later, the whole crew is laughing at what the "pitiful meat creatures" thought constituted a planet in 1977. Just for good measure, they blow up the sun. Hope you're happy, NASA.
You'd think nothing could possibly make me madder than the thought of alien forces blowing up the sun. If that's what you honestly thought, then you, sir, don't know me at all. See, I was frequenting a blog the other day, one that hadn't been updated in quite some time. A new bold post suddenly blared 'cross my monitor, all sparky and whatnot. And then... the nerve of this guy... he keeps talking like he never even stopped blogging. I mean, this guy let his blog go to seed for slightly over a month, and then with no explanation or warning, bang zoom, he's back. Makes me sick to my four stomachs. I have never witnessed such blind ostentatiousness and lived to tell the tale. Still, he made up for it by personally coming to my house and painting my mailbox a lovely shade of pistachio.
--The Taker of Gist | 11:41 PM
4 broke it down:
your drooling...did you just have your teeth worked on?
A little of column A, a little of...
No! I can stand it no longer! That saying is so old, and is invalid as a means of conveying a point!
From now on, I shall drill my own teeth, on my own time and dime! You can't stop me, you don't even have a decoder ring! Bwa ha ha!
I met a fellow who claimed to be a collector of those Pioneer probes. "My good man," I said to him, "those probes are scattered from here to the Dogstar by now. What do you mean you collect them?"
At this he caved, and confessed that his collection didn't contain one single Pioneer probe, though he did have some funny looking rocks that might have once been space rubble.
At which I quipped that the entire planet is actually just a largish chunck of space rubble. At this, the fellow's countenance seemed to brighten considerably. "Why then," he said, "I'll just start collecting the planet!"
Dear Taker:
How many roads must a Gist wade down before you can call him a Gist?
From:
Concerned in North Tacoma
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