Gistological Institute

Incognito

2007-08-27T22:46:00.000-04:00

You really don't remember our mission? Let me fill you in:

Picture it. Paris. 1941. The North had just invaded Atlanta, burning all crops within sight. General Washington was building a new American Empire by driving Attila the Hun to commit even more brutal actions than he would otherwise have taken. And there we were, atop the Himalayas. "Edmonde," says you, "when will the war end? When can we return to peacetime?" And I looked at you, and at the other children, and I said "the world we knew is gone. We must make Earth into whatever world we hope to live in." That's when the Abstractors initiated a memory pulse; I was the only one to survive with my brain patterns intact.

Why you called me "Edmonde" I'll never know. That wasn't even close to what my nickname actually was (the other children called me Scoots), but what really disturbed, what really perturbed, what really frosts my cake, is that you had the gall, the temerity, the outright fortitude to call me by the name of that venomous villain, that villainous venom-spewer, Edmonde. You think interstellar war is a game? That a slip of the tongue will -- what? -- break my silver concentration?!

I've never been broken -- not by King Kong nor Kublai Kahn, not by the C-SPAN personalities. Arlen Specter knows that I'm impervious to several strains of the truth serum firsthand, he was there the day the Abstractors invaded. He was among the cowardly "Save My Baby!" club that virtually ceded our homeworld to them bug-faced hugger-muggers in gray jump-suits, with their filthy reptilian predilictions. Sir! Senator Specter, I call upon you to renounce your ties to the vile invaders and their mothership! It is of national urgency! America can no longer withstand the continual exaltation to the aliens and their "special friend," George Bush. There's been a lot of talk about "sugary stars" and "intercontinental superluminary travel," but it's a crock pot of cuckoo clock theories. No hard evidence to back up their fireball tactics. They want our internal heat glands; that's all there is to it.

Senator, renounce the sugarship!

Mentor

2007-07-16T22:12:00.000-04:00

Like many of you, I enjoy the maritime sports. Water polo, water football, water bathing, I cannot get enough H₂O in my diet. So when I was offered the opportunity by the New York education department to run a camp for water-challenged children from desert families, I balked. "How can they learn to swim," I asked my would-be employers, "if they've never even had a glass of water?" I hung up and never wanted to see their extracurricular faces again.

But Gloria Chowski -- that's the name of the department representative -- was very insistent that I run the upstate Special@Water Project (or SWAP as the legend goes. The commercial at sign was too over the top for me). She called me back the day after I turned them down, during one of my ten major mealtimes. "I cannot be part of your sham 'education!'" I yelled, slamming my phone so hard I broke the mold. Relief! I was in the clear! Then... she called an hour later. Then a half hour after that. It continued in that regressive geometric pattern until the interval between calls was less than the time it takes to dial my number; I assume that by that point, someone was assisting her on a separate line.

"Sea witch!" I bellowed, "I will not sell out for a pair of water wings and a badge! Those children are your responsibility, not mine. I have no desire to- yes, I'm aware of your department's history, but I don't- no. Really?" Her kind words were melting my heart, by golly! We spoke for the next two hours about her grandkids and what I could do to improve my community, which apparently does not include having my neighbors' dog stuffed and mounted. "Gloria," I told her, "how was I s'posed to know that they would form an emotional bond with a dog of all creatures? I've only seen them feed and water it." She was pretty insistent on that point. But by the time I faked going through a tunnel to get her off the line, we'd really gotten some of the core issues sorted. I think I'm supposed to run a camp somewhere, but I don't know where... it is...

My Friend The Mailman

2007-04-06T00:14:00.000-04:00

Hanging out with the mailman was the greatest thing that ever happened to me. Greater than sliced bread, but greater than fresh Italian bread? Forget about it. It changed my outlook on life, and ever since the first time I saw that guy wandering around my property, I've always felt a kind of kinship with said mailman. When I first saw el mailmano (henceforth referred to as "Doug") I thought he was a wild bear. My neck of the woods is home to bears, leopards, bridge monsters, and Ron Howard, so it wasn't that much of a stretch. Plus, Doug was seven feet tall and covered with a thick layer of fur (or maybe it was a just an overcoat. You be the judge). So at first I just walked right up to him with a handful of berries and spent about ten minutes talking in gibberish to see if he would respond to my gentle voice and eat the berries (which were poisoned, by the way. I hate bears) right out of my palms.

His refusal of my tainted offer, and the fact that he reported me to the police for tapping his phone, made me reevaluate my hatred of the bear race and the way I lead my life, in general. I came to realize that over the years, I've lost more than I've gained. And I'm not talking about weight. I'm talking about the little things: picking your teeth with a toothpick instead of a rusty nail, holding a hand to your head to get better reception on your iPod, going to Seaworld and punching a whale. I mean, I've punched a whale, but it wasn't in Seaworld. And it was in self-defense, for those of you "concerned" (wink, wink) at the thought of some colorful rogue running this way and that, punching random whales.

They've given me a lot of flak for my pro-whale-punching agenda in the presses. Steve Jobs sent me a letter of marque about it, though, but I turned him down. I fight whales because I hate them, not because some Apple bigwig offers me ten thousand dollars a blowhole. My standing rate is forty thousand, and if I don't have my principles, then what am I? Some kind of spineless Remora, beholden to the dorsal fin of the whale of industry? I'll never redact, I won't submit, not until the whale apologists recognize what those monsters did to Pinocchio's family. Only on that day will I, the Taker of Gist, accept such a paltry fee.

Santa Claus

2006-12-25T00:19:00.000-05:00

When I was a child, there was only one thing I wanted for Christmas: to be Jewish. Also, I wanted to be continent. When Christmas Day rolled around and I was still wearing rubber pants, I figured Santa probably didn't deliver on the second part of my wish either. He didn't take it too kindly when I accused him of fraud and threatened to sue him. Not having the money to follow up on my claim, I turned to the occult; if Santa wouldn't grant me a real spiritual conversion, I'd find a shaman or genie who would. Year after year I scoured the world, but I was forced to return to my homeland, Enewetak Atoll, after I found out the U.S. government bombed it in 1936. By the time I got there, nothing remained; the whole island was gone. Wiped off the face of the map in a nuclear test. That's when I realized Santa Claus must die.

Hear me out, now. It's not that I held a grudge against the late Mr. Claus. Indeed, I admired his organizational skills and work ethic. I had a part time job in his sweatshop cleaning looms as a young child, which is how I would have known where the breaks in his security grid were, if I did it. Ah, to be a child in Santa's sweatshop! The sights, the sounds, the occasional purges of elf unionists, the merriment! How I loved the reindeer; I would glue magnets to the stable floor and watch them try to walk over them. That's how I learned that reindeer don't wear horseshoes. Who'd've thunk it? Of course, I was very upset when the reindeer didn't stick to the ground, so I may have set off a few bottle rockets to rattle their cages. Raise your hand if you've never set off bottle rockets at a pack of reindeer. Anyone? I thought not.

Memories... how I long for those days, back before 24 hour news channels. I suppose they're a byproduct of the temporal distortion, though. See, after the government destroyed my homeland, I had one choice only: use Santa's time machine to go back and prevent Herbert Hoover from becoming the United States' only five term president. Naturally, Santa responded poorly to my requests: "Ho ho, no no! The integrity of the timeline is paramount. We can't risk a paradox." His sarcastic undertones haunted my dreams. So I may have made the case to Congress that Santa was stockpiling weapons of mass destruction, and after the ensuing war with the North Pole, I may have looted his time machine from the wreckage of the old candy silo. But that's okay; I went back to 1929 and caused the Great Depression by walking into a single bank and yelling "they're out of money!"

This stroke of brilliance on my part threw millions into instant poverty and prolonged the Second World War for another ten years. But the thermonuclear destruction of Enewetak Atoll was likewise pushed back almost ten years, allowing the total population of six people a nice cushion of escape time. When I returned to the future, the world was completely different! My father went from being a mild-mannered office dreg to an accredited author, and there was a new car in my driveway. Cha-ching! And since nobody from my atoll died, I never goaded Congress into war with Santa, and the fat man never even realized I'd changed history.

I now had a time machine. Santa was completely out of the picture. Unfortunately, the device was stolen from me while I was karaokeing in Baghdad in 2002. Boy, breaking that egg to the C.I.A was the hardest thing I'd ever done in my real life. I mean, how do you tell the most secretive agency in the free world that Saddam Hussein himself may have the ability to change history? Bush himself got involved, and less than a year later Iraq was toppled, and the good people of Halliburton were spending millions of dollars sifting through the rubble to find even a hint of the time machine.

Success was elusive, but I was vindicated when the basic circuitry of the machine was recovered from an insurgent stronghold in March 2005. Alas, the Ptolemeic Stabilizer was damaged during the refurbishment process. Our first test run was an attempt to travel one day into the future. Instead of showing up in the test room a day later, the time machine materialized in the middle of some nebula a million light years away; exactly where the Earth had been one day ago. It was quite unfortunate, as the Iraq War could not be canceled out as the North Polar Conflict had been.

So I turned to the one man who could set everything right: Santa Claus, who still had the original time machine. I argued with him, saying that since time travel was the cause of the Iraq War, it should be used to prevent it. He argued that since neither Saddam nor the insurgents implemented temporal warfare, and since I lost the machine in the first place, he was not obligated to interfere in the affairs of the living. Bush waited patiently outside the factory complex in Air Force One for about three hours while we fought. When I walked out the front doors triumphantly, his heart skipped a beat. He looked me straight in the eyes and was all, "can we go back in time and cancel the war out? I've got a letter for my past self, if you need it." Then I told him the whole story, how Santa and I had reached an agreement. The Iraq War would not be altered through time travel, no.

But I wasn't wearing rubber pants anymore.

Historical Analysis

2006-12-12T23:51:00.000-05:00

Coffee! Coffee! Coffee! Boy, you know what I really love?! Tea. Ha. I bet you thought I was going to say "coffee," weren't you? Well, you're wrong. I've never touched the stuff. Makes you short. Minuscule. Not as minuscule as the Persian empire after the Byzantines got done with them. You know what I'm talking about. I've had a vendetta against the Persians ever since Thermopylae, when my beloved pet rock was trampled. I have not recovered from the shock of losing Rocky, but I suppose I can take solace in the fact that the Persians never got the majority of the Islamic world to accept their choice for Caliph following the death of Uthman. I mean, come on, Ali was totally not the right guy for the job. He was a lover, not a leader. I don't want to sound sacrilegious here, but I knew him personally. I was at his birthday party! Quite a guy. But I think (and the Catholic church will back me up here) Martin Luther was much better at partying.

That man could breakdance at the drop of a hat, and speaking of hats, he wore one constantly. I asked him about that once. I was all, "Hey Marty, why are you wearing that hat all the time? Is it part of your justification by faith alone?" And he looked me right in the eye and pulled it from his scalp. There was... nothing there. He was bald. Ever since Charles the Bald defeated my Viking brthers, I've had the unfortunate distinction of being a goði without an Althing. It was at that moment I knew Lutheranism had no chance outside Germany and parts of Scandinavia, so I bid him farewell and hobbled off to help my good friend Jon Stewart integrate himself into Daily Show culture.

Sheesh! I have never met anyone since then (with the exception of Cicero) who held a greater disdain of formal wear. "Wear a tie," I said. "You'll be more impressive," I said. But he stuck to his guns and that... that turtleneck of his. How I loathe turtlenecks... but that's not important right now. You don't have to understand the turtleneck-based sectarian divisions that tore my homeland apart. The point is, Jon Stewart ended up taking my advice and wearing a suit and tie; immediately after he did, the show was renamed to include his name. It was then that my cordial friendship with Jon took a nosedive. I told him flat out that if he didn't add an "H" to his first name the show would die within the year. He refused. We've never spoken since.

Thirsty

2006-11-29T22:15:00.000-05:00

Tarnation! I have never been so thirsty in my life. When I signed up for this "Genuine Desert Adventure" I assumed there would be amenities, man. Little umbrellas in my drinks, an ocean view, that kind of thing. Instead I find myself in the middle of the middle... east. I mean, who in their right mind goes on a vacation in the middle east?! It's a war zone! The travel agency said nothing about sectarian conflict. But then again, my travel agent is a convicted felon who introduced himself as "someone who has made, and will continue to make, consistently poor choices." Most people would hear that and a warning bell would go off in their uvulas. Not me. I'm more "evolved," you might say. When I was 17, a radioactive spider bit me. Also, I ate a meteor.

By my fortieth birthday my powers progressed to the point where I was able to not only fly, but sky-waddle! It's like walking, but you're levitating. The first time I tried that was 1912. On the Titanic. It didn't end well. After my fancy-pants lawyers managed to scapegoat a family of foreign-born icebergs for the tragedy, the League of Metamen paid me a visit. This was way before the age of comic book superheroes. The benevolent beings we know today as "superheroes" were then called Metamen, and were all from the same Iowa town. Ever wonder why superheroes fight for "truth, justice, and the American way?" It's because all modern superheroes are the spiritual descendants of the Metamen, who were basically goody-goody farmhands. Anyways, the Metamen broke my front door down (they paid for it, don't worry) and demanded--demanded!--that I, the great Taker of Gist, cease using my powers for evil purposes. Well let me tell you, I capitulated completely. I gave in to every single demand they had. It was as if some kind of ethereal force awakened inside my blistering gizzard, imbuing me with a momentary spark of divine knowledge.

Turns out, my appendix exploded. You don't need to be a baby Einstein to know that while the appendix is the most useless of organs, its value as a pain inducer is immeasurable. I spent over a third of my life recovering from the trauma of losing my appendix spontaneously, but you know, you've gotta get over these things. I only wish those "Make a Wish" people just couldn't wrap their brains around that. I mean, I tried to tell them I was fine, but those arrogant fools wouldn't leave my side during the whole ordeal. They insisted on reading to me, bathing me, feeding me through a tube... enough already! I get it! You're going to heaven! Stop rubbing it in my face, all right?

Giving Thanks

2006-11-24T13:40:00.000-05:00

The table was mighty cold this year; fuel (including glorious coal) has been going up in value ever since I was a toddler. It's getting to the point where not only am I not thankful for the high prices, but I'm actually starting to complain. Never before in the history of my life have I complained about anything, as my kindergarten teachers can attest. That's right, teachers. Plural. I had a real problem with my first kindergarten teacher (Miss Shelley), the way she would always make us recite the pledge of allegiance every morning to--not the American flag--but a bust of Ozymandias. Yes, that Ozymandias. When we asked--nay, begged--to pledge allegiance to the flag, she would cackle like some kind of storybook villain. Needless to say, her reign of obscure 19th century poetry love was brutally crushed by administrative dignitaries from the district office. And I... I was a mere child, caught in the crossfire of something I couldn't understand.

My second kindergarten teacher was a little nicer than that, but barely. Now, Ms. Washington-Lincoln-Jefferson-Roosevelt-Reagan never made us violate one of the ten commandments by praying to a graven image, but she did something far worse. She taught us to believe in ourselves. "What can be so bad about that?" you ask. Shut up. Maybe you can handle believing in yourself, but as someone with megalomania, I can tell you that it was a one-way ticket to juvenile hall. Telling psychiatrists about how you filled your uncles boots with fire ants is never a good idea, by the way. Just keep that one under your hat.

They say the third time's the charm, and as far as kindergarten teachers go, the saying rings... hollow. Yes, my third kindergarten teacher was by far the best, but he was comatose. At class parties we would dress him up in a little hat and piano tie and see if we could wake him up by shouting, but he never did. We never even found out his name, but he was good. I learned more in those last two months of kindergarten than I learned in the following thirty-four grades that followed. Remember, grades you repeat still count. So what I'm trying to say is, I'm thankful. I'm thankful that, despite the best efforts of the comatose, the poets, hippies, and "The Man," I managed to survive to reach the ripe old age of infinity. As Archduke Franz Ferdinand said at 10:00 a.m. on June 28, 1914, "I am invincible! No one can stop me now!"

The Non-Posters

2006-10-27T23:41:00.000-04:00

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.

Presentational Speaking

2006-09-26T18:23:00.000-04:00

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a common enemy. And that enemy is ignorance. See, back during the Peloponnesian War, both Athens and Sparta vied for control of the Internet (at that time known only as "Asia") so as to absorb knowledge and become omniscient. But the Internet is not a dump truck that you just put stuff on, as the Athenians so painfully learned. It's a series of tubes. And by the end of this speech, you'll all be plumbers!

The first thing you need to know about the Interweb is that it's always a good idea to disseminate fallacious information about yourself. Put your house up for sale online, and write about how a Civil War buff once told you your house is built over a confederate graveyard. The best part is that it's impossible to fact check this kind of thing, and there are a bunch of really creepy rich people who would pay a king's ransom to live over a graveyard. Seriously, this one time, I was down at the nickelodeon (not the station, but an actual 19^th century nickelodeon) and this really old guy walked up to me and started asking about my precariously perched Gist Manor. Not wanting to offend the good sir, I told him the mansion was home to a host of calamities, ranging from attacks by a traveling cult of star worshipers to the origin of the stock market crash of 1929. Ha, I sold it to him on the spot for a whopping five bucks! And it wasn't even my property!

Like they say in France, no refunds. I never gave the fool his money back, and I used those five dollars to finance the first Trans-Neptunian Oktoberfest. Why would I do something like that? Imagine eating a delicious chunk of bratwurst. Now, imagine eating it on the icy slopes of Pluto! See the difference?! No? Well, you'd taste the difference, that's for sure. I'm positive that Oktoberfest will be made more festive by extraterrestrial flight; it's a gut feeling, you've gotta trust me. Trust me because deep, deep down in your gullet, you know what I'm saying is true. And that concludes this portion of the speech. I hope you learned a truckload about the Internet pipes; see you at the party!

Fingerpainting

2006-09-18T18:55:00.000-04:00

Ever since the Great Wall of China was put up, we've all had a certain morbid fascination with fingerpainting. I know that as a child, I was forced to paint picture after picture of birds and trestles, until I could stand it no longer. It made me the monster I am today. Y'all see, way back in the 70s, fingerpainting was the only fashionable way to make a quick buck. Down at the broadwalk, I would fingerpaint as Edmonde danced for Roosevelt dimes, playing his benchmark accordion. The people would stop and laugh, and I'd hand them poorly crafted works of postmodernist art; sometimes they'd let me take their boats for a spin.

But mostly, they'd just tip Edmonde while I sat in his shadow, peeling pecans. Once, and I remember this distinctly, a fat man in a red suit with a white beard came by. He saw how dehydrated I was and tried to give me a bowl of water, but Edmonde chased him off, yelling "Thief! Thief!" I never saw that man again, but I've always hoped he'd return to finish the job. I even built a little shrine out of an old barrel, so that I could practice various forms of primeval meditation. You know that I'm a spiritual guru, don't you? I mean, I've said it plenty of times that I am. Four years ago I won an award for being so spiritual, from the polytheists of Connecticut themselves.

Connecticut has always been a place of perpetual renewal. Though their polytheism is looked down on by the New Hampshirites and Vermontiers, by the light of the harvest moon, they're exquisite fingerpainters. The state seal of Connecticut itself is a patchwork of handprints from over 50 generations of corn-shucking pilgrims, starting with the colony's founder, Colonel Chickenpox the First. The Colonel Chickenpox I work with (or as he's more commonly known, "Bohemius B. Barnstrom") is the last descendant of Connecticut's royal scion (excluding his children and grandchildren). Blue blood flows though the colonel's veins, chocking him full o' fingerpaintin' ancestral power. Even now, the urge to fingerpaint... overwhelms his military sensibilities. It's not like he hasn't been overwhelmed like this before... back in the Crimea, his fingerpainting gave away his position and led his entire cavalry unit to be captured by wild turkeys. Not Turks, but actual turkeys. They've got quite the revolutionary movement going on, in the hidden barnyard underworld.

Groundbreaking Ceremony

2006-09-06T15:45:00.000-04:00

Today marks the beginning of a new era. For over twenty years, our little community has been bound by the iron will of Mayor Edmonde. I can see now that dissolving the town council and appointing him "Mayor for Life" may have been a bad idea, but I stand by my 20-year-old decision to do so. He may have turned out to be evil incarnate. He may have turned out to be a fiscally irresponsible fool who fakes magic tricks to get out of traffic jams. He may have even been one of the pod people; we can never know now.

One thing is certain in this time of great upheaval: we will prevail. I ask all of you to join hands... do it! I command you to join hands and be happy! Do it! Do it now! Okay. There you go. Now, where was I... yes, the ceremony. Edmonde has been a thorn in all our sides, what with the spending of our tax dollars on his forty foot catapult. I think we can all agree that when we elected Edmonde, we only wanted a twenty foot catapult. He thinks more is less, but I say that more is simply more. You can't sugar coat that.

Believe me, I've sugar coated many things. But I prefer deep frying them instead. I mean, when you coat things with sugar, you've got to use some kind of wax anyway. If you don't, the sugar just falls off. With deep frying, I can turn almost any substance into delicious sugary treats. See that pile of rocks way over yonder? No, you don't! That's a sample of Sugar Pebbles, next year's most popular breakfast cereal. At least, it could be if my deal with Kellogg's go through okay. And it's no surefire thing; many an entrepreneur went into the deep-fried cereal business only to be burned in the end.

Lumberjacks

2006-08-28T21:18:00.000-04:00

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.

The Lady What Loved Jesus

2006-08-14T19:31:00.000-04:00

The hallway is empty, the lights are off. Why would the lights need to be on, anyway? It's the middle of the day. Waste of electricity, those lightbulbs would be.

I'm just sitting there- actually, I'm standing, minding my own business. Ah, how nice... how peaceful... how serene. Then, from the opposing end of the hall comes a voice:

"I love you Jesus! I worship you, Jesus! Oh, merciful..."

I turned my head up to see a middle aged woman walking by, declaring her undying love of the Christian messiah. She seemed to be heading toward the soft drink machine, so I just assumed she'd spent the day outside and was incredibly thirsty.

But she didn't buy a soda. Instead, she walked a little way down the hall, and back again. The whole time, she continued to profess her spiritual inclinations, apparently unaware of anyone else in the building. Three minutes later, she walked away, still praising the 2000 year old keystone of western civilization. I didn't say anything the whole time, since it was so unexpected I was caught off guard, and it's not my job to interfere with the lives of others. That's the prime directive, and I follow it to the letter. If I don't, Starfleet Command could give me a court martial. It happened to Kirk, you know. One day he's an admiral... then, bang! Captain again. Prime Directive, man.

Anyway, it wouldn't have seemed so strange if she hadn't kept using the word "Jesus" over and over again, in her unexpected run-on prayer. I mean, the variations were astounding.

It was sort of like going to a fancy restaurant, and the guy at the table next to you pulls out a set of bronze-plated utensils he brought from home. Completely unexpected, but not really a problem. And hey, the experience allowed me to combine Christianity and Star Trek in an exciting new way that's sure to become a literary genre decades from now.

Firefox

2006-08-04T17:51:00.000-04:00

Internet Explorer is too old, they said. Security holes, and whatnot. A complete lack of tabbed browsing betrays a sadness in the behemoth's rendering engine, one that a mere facelift can't cure. Opera's a nice browser. Reminds me of swiss cheese, the way is tears apart my carefully constructed web pages with a flick of the wrist. "Switch to Firefox," Edmonde says. "Firefox is the future!" I scoff at him. "Opera," I tell him, "is a million times better than your precious Firefox. When our brave laser battalions were Taking Gist in the War of Roses, where was your Firefox then?!" He goes silent.

It's not that I have a grudge against Firefox... I just... the logo. Think about it, people! Firefox's main icon (indeed, its only icon) is a fox racing 'round the world. What does that say about anything?! Look at Opera: A big red letter "O," shimmering at the edges. And Internet Explorer, a fancy "E" with a ring in an elliptical orbit. Notice anything? Anyone? I'll tell you, since you obviously don't have the willpower to accept the inevitable. Letters. They're both linked by letters. Vowels, to be precise. It has been standard convention, since the founding of the Internet in 1993, to represent the venerable medium with vowels. Firefox breaks this convention, throwing civilized society into chaos, disrupting valuable company time and resources.

Until such time as Firefox, as well as the other "leech browsers" (I include Safari in this bunch) clean up their act and make it incumbent upon themselves to join the vowel-based community, I shun them. I shun them all! I absolutely refuse to change the way I do business to "make room" for their irresponsibilities. Now, I've worked for Mozilla for over 20 years, back when they were still a garage band. I'm sad to say, the name "Firefox" might have been my own doing. You see, the band was falling apart. Microsoft tore us up at the "Battle of the Bands" the previous week, and we were looking to go in a new direction. I said, "why not change that big, unwieldy lizard to something smaller?" They ate it up; two days later, they left a forty-foot fox on my front lawn. I was outraged, and ordered the police to burn it. Once the Mozilla roadies saw what I was doing, it hit them: Firefox. And for that, I truly apologize to Letter-Theory web enthusiasts. I don't expect to be forgiven, just forgotten.

Global Warming

2006-07-26T12:19:00.000-04:00

They say the Earth is heating up. But, unlike some people, I'm not responsible. That's right, I'm looking at you. You thought all those years you thoughtlessly tossed apple cores into recycling bins, you were saving the world? Bah! You, the consumer, are directly responsible for turning our once-proud homeworld into the cosmic glue factory it's become. You say you still don't understand? Let me break it down for you.

A thousand years ago, the Earth was covered in ocean. No land at all. Then, one day, a rocky island sprang up out of the sea. And on it was a single turtle, her back covered with mushrooms and garden gnomes. Remember now, this was back before anything, so when that turtle wagged its little turtle tail, it caused a butterfly effect. Actually, back then it was known as the "Turtle Effect," as butterflies didn't yet exist. But anyway, the turtle's callous tail wagging sent the waves smashing, the baby seals thrashing, and the Windows 95 crashing. So I guess it isn't really the same thing as the butterfly effect... except for the waves. That remains true.

See, the turtle is a metaphor. Each mushroom on its mighty back represents a model of the many industries which sprang up around the time of the first world war. Why just the first world war, and not the other three? Well, it has to do with logistics. You really can't sustain an army with a bottle of barbeque sauce; believe me, I've tried. If I never see another fork... but that's not important right now. What is important is that you heed my warning and stop recycling. Recycling has been known to both reduce and reuse, to the detriment of humankind. Our precious industries cannot continue recycling indefinitely, and if something isn't done, the Earth will continue to heat. So for the good of the people, discard your plastic! Packing peanuts be free!

K-Mart

2006-07-18T11:05:00.000-04:00

Not many people would invest in K-Mart after it declared bankruptcy, but I did. Yes, I invested all my money into what I called "Big K." In fact, I went right up to the CEO of K-Mart, and was all, "Hey dude, change the name of the chain to 'Big K' as soon as you can! People will love it!" And he was all, "No. We've done enough damage to our poor shareholders. How can we justify changing the name?" That makes me mad, when industrialists try to philosophize. That's my job! It vexed me to the brink of madness, but instead of committing myself, I decided to run for CEO of K-Mart.

Promised more than I could deliver, some say. But I maintain to this day that had I been elected CEO of K-Mart, we'd be on the moon and speaking in emoticons by now. My lunar-based branding initiative could've been a cash cow of biblical proportion. Instead, it was relegated to the dustbin of history. How could such a bold, forward-thinking plan fail?! I calculated all the variables... except love.

And I tried to factor love into the plan! Really, I did. Seriously, dude. I went from house to house, knocking on doors and asking the occupants to marry me. All of them said no, leading me to refine my calculations to the point where I thought I could measure love. I petitioned Congress to fund my love-based mathematical boot camp. Two months and $46 billion later, my crack team of loyal arthropods discovered a formula to accurately measure love. And that equation is: Love = (Mass of kidneys / (average income * number of bathrooms in house)) / 0.

Technical Support

2006-07-03T10:02:00.000-04:00

Hello! How may I help you? Okay, please hold one second... okay, I'm opening a new case file... so, how's the family? Really? Really? I'm sorry to hear that. No... sir, I'm going to have to ask you to stop crying. Sir? Sir, a new case file has been created. Can I have the model number, please? Yes, it's on the back of the casing... no... yes. Yes. No, I don't think I've ever been to Berlin. Is that where it happened?

Look, buddy, don't get snippy with me! I've worked this desk for over a hundred thousand years, supplying quality service to people a hundred thousand times better than you'll ever be. What?! No you... my boss? Fool! I have no boss! My only enemy is time. Now, if you're not willing to tell me the service tag on the fridge, I'm going to transfer you back to sales. Yeah, I will. I'll transfer you so fast it'll make your head spin. I have the power of transfer!

Don't believe me? Neither did Colonel Chickenpox. And look at him now, the big lout. Mopping up the walls over at the blood bank every Saturday... yeah, I know! The walls! Sometimes, when they hit an artery, it just... sprays all over the place. So they bring the old colonel in to clean up. Just like he cleaned up in the Great War. Yes... okay, I'm writing the service number down. Okay, have you performed the necessary hat dance? No? Look, I can't ship a replacement part until you do the hat dance. Okay, but after this I refuse to make another exception. You'll just have to take it up with management. The hat dance is a time-honored tradition! Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Yeah, I'm going to have to put you on hold. Buh-bye.

Star Trek

2006-06-20T23:27:00.000-04:00

Why does everyone think I'm a Star Trek character?! Seriously, it's starting to get old. I walked into the doctor's office the other day, to have him take a look at my mullet. Those things burrow into your brain sometimes, causing mulletitis. I have, like, three friends who were hospitalized for mulletitis last year. It's a vicious disease, ravaging your soul and all that. But before I could see the doctor, I had to put up with this idiotic receptionist. I was all, "I need to see the doctor. I don't want to hear another lame story about your kids." I normally wouldn't make such egregious demands, but the last time I was in that office the receptionist tried to sell me a timeshare by talking nonstop about her kids. I'm not sure of the stratagem applied there, but it must have been powerful.

That's when the doctor came out of his office. "Edmonde!" I yelled, for Edmonde is the only doctor my insurance will cover. Never mind that the two of us had a falling out after he wrapped me in toilet paper and mailed me to Saipan. I'm a big fan of practical jokes, but on my birthday? Even I never sank so low, and I've had both the opportunity and motive. What kind of life involves Saipan?! I mean, the people of Saipan are all right, don't get me wrong. But it's just not Guam. There's no utilities, no atmosphere, no meat in that burger. I'm not a scholar, but even I wouldn't put an extinct volcano next to an aquifer. Still, they're a whale of a tale better than Jon Stewart.

Yeah, I was listening to that little dog and pony show he calls a "fake newscast," and I heard what he said to that "guest" of his. Yeah, the crazy guy is always the one getting up on soap boxes and blaming Roosevelt for stealing his couch. Sure. Let me tell you, I knew that man. And Jon Stewart is totally lying- Roosevelt did steal that poor soul's couch, and he enjoyed stealing it. I remember it clearly... the year was 1933. That poor, poor couchless man. It brings a tear to my eye that Jon Stewart, a man whose name is clearly missing a consonant, would have the audacity to malign the reputation of Crazy Joe Mama.

Open Letter

2006-06-03T20:15:00.000-04:00

Dearest Colleague,

Your intentions have been intuited, and I will under no circumstances refer to you as "Provost of Pork." Not only do you lack the required degrees to become the provost of any university, but the Department of Orwellian Agriculture has a court order preventing you from mentioning pork in any of your printed documents. I think we all know why, and the fact that you think you can subvert the will of the people pains me to no end. Have you no shame?

Furthermore, I humbly decline the stock options you offered me under duress. My sense of moral outrage forbids me from buying stock in companies that discriminate based on browser use. I mean, sure I have a huge problem with anyone who uses Internet Explorer. But I never actively screened them, put up some kind of script that would give them the eye wrinkles. Why do you have such a zealous hatred of non-Opera browsers? Firefox never choked a chicken, I can tell you that. But to imply that Internet Explorer is so inferior that its users will be cast into the fiery pits of Northern Kentucky is simply offensive. Sir, I admire your aspirations, but must decline your influence.

You have won many converts over the years on your message of Opera superiority, but the times are changing, my friend. Like sand through the fingers of a polar bear, so too are the new browser wars. You tried to rule by fear; history have proven this approach flawed at best. At worst, frosted. In the interest of international cooperation, I must insist that you cede control of the Ottawa Vice. May your shoes always be polished.

Punctually Incognizant,
The Taker of Gist, Third Class

I'm Going Camping

2006-05-16T11:20:00.000-04:00

I saw Edmonde at the mall yesterday. He was buying a tent and a box of beef jerky. I was all, "Edmonde, you aren't legally allowed to buy all that beef jerky. Remember the restraining order." But he promptly ignored me, causing me to spill my soda all over myself. I mean, who does Edmonde think he is? I practically raised him, ever since his parents abandoned him in the Pennsylvanian woods. They thought to themselves one day, "Hey! You know how we can save a whole bunch of money? We can abandon our kids out in the woods behind our house!" The next day about fifty kids wandered onto my ranch near Philly. This big fat one walked right up to me and tried to poke my eye. I totally put the smack down on him; perhaps next time he'll think before he accosts a stranger in a parking lot.

But getting back to the other kids, I've never seen such a ragged group of non-union laborers. They were uncivilized, and reeked of pine-sol. The next day I taught them to stomp grapes and plant apple trees. By the end of the week, almost all of them had earned the required number of merit badges and were quickly being adopted by parents who wouldn't abandon them out in the woods again. All except for Edmonde. He was still on his first merit badge, and I was getting sick of him. So by the end of the second week, I had him shipped off to boarding school. That's where he met Colonel Chickenpox and the two of them began plotting against me.

It's not like I'm a static character. I'm not flat; I've got a lot more than two arch-enemies. I mean, there's Edmonde and the Colonel, but there's got to be a million others. Just look at Jimmy Dean. Not the famous one, but my neighbor, Jimmy Dean. He keeps getting my mail, because apparently, "Taker of Gist" and "Jimmy Dean" are spelled so similarly that the mail carriers have a hard time differentiating. But does Jimmy tell me he got my mail? Not at all. I have to drag myself over to his house in the middle of the night, wake his whole family up, and scream, "Did you get my mail?! Don't lie to me, President Dean!" But as it turns out, he (or at least his lawyer) believes that he never got any of my mail by mistake. Suddenly the world feels a lot smaller.

Art School

2006-05-09T08:51:00.000-04:00

Art schools aren't something I'd look into most of the time. I mean, I'm a good artist. Good? I'm fantastico, as the King of Spain told me at my last birthday party. His exact words were, "¡Tomador del Quid, lavamos las manos antes comemos! ¡Ahora!" Then he took me out on the town, and we went down to the art district where I got him a dozen Picassos because he looked so depressed, being a mere prince. Yes, this was before he became the full-fledged King of Spain. And what does a mere prince know of diplomacy, or chocolate chip cookies, or dog training?

Turns out, he knew a lot. We were in roommate back in college, the King and I. Both of us were art majors, but he wasn't into it, really. He more or less went with the flow, unable to sit still for five minutes and plan out a roadmap to his future along the highway of scheduling. I should know, I was the school's registrar, and I couldn't talk to the man for five minutes about the difference between a mouse and a squirrel, let alone the number of classes and credits he needed to graduate within his lifetime. Every time I approached him and his friends, they threw soda and potatoes at me. Don't ask me where they got potatoes. I'm not from Idaho, I have no idea how potatoes grow. Why don't you ask Colonel Chickenpox?

Colonel Chickenpox is one of my oldest friends. The two of us really showed the government a thing or two when we refused to pay those lumber tariffs before importing lumber from Canada. Softwood, or so they say. But we really did need that lumber. The Colonel is an American hero, so why should he be forced to pay unreasonable tariffs like the average Joe Thousandaire? I mean, just look at Chickenpox's record. He's been melted on five separate occasions, and each time he comes back angrier and more patriotic than ever. Why, the last time he unmelted, he returned to life with not one, but two dollars. That's why he needs lumber, I think. It keeps him from remelting. The man is like Chuck Norris.

Walking The Dog

2006-05-03T08:43:00.000-04:00

I love walking dogs. I've told you this before, haven't I? Every day of my life involves walking dogs from Slyvester Avenue to Voldemort Boulevard. They called me "Mr. Scooper" because I was always cleaning up after those two mongrels. It never would have occured to any of those fools that I was walking those dogs involuntarily. But sadly I never had the option of not being a dog walker. Back when I was a mere lad of seven, my father looked me straight in the eyes and told me, "Son, I know that I'm a corporate tycoon and we've got millions for your education, but I want you to grow up and be a professional dog walker."

And ever since that day I've thought of nothing but walking dogs. Oh, how I love dogs! Terriers, spaniels, beagals. Bagels! Hot bagels with cream cheese on them! Sure they're not dogs, but they taste delicious. I should know; back in high school, I was captain of the Taste Testing Team. The TTT as it was known was founded back in the days before formal atire became the norm in acedemia. I distinctly remember receiving an inquiry into my taste testing abilities before they would let me anywhere near their reactor. Never before have I felt so insulted.

The captain of the TTT was none other than Edmonde (of course), and it was all his fault that I was rejected as an applicant. How I loathe you, Edmonde! Even back in high school, the fool was thwarting my plans. Just look at your own record, Edmonde. Back in 9^th grade, Edmonde poured a bowl of shaving cream onto our teacher's desk and blamed me. Then he ran over the principal's dog and also blamed me; dispair. I was forced to walk the flattened dog for many a year, which is where I got my acquired taste for walking dogs. And I distinctly remember velvet.

Censorship Rules

2006-04-25T13:03:00.000-04:00

I enjoy censoring things. The first time I censored anything I was in kindergarden. I remember it like it was yesterday, because it was. I was sitting next to my best friend Edmonde, and the teacher was all, "Can anyone tell me what four plus seven is?" I couldn't take it. "You can't use words like that in an educational facility," I screamed. The other five year olds joined in. By the end of the day a television crew recorded our teacher being taken away in chains to a federal detention center under the cover of darkness. It was that day that I began to realize that censorship was more than just a good idea; it's a way of life.

I set out at age eighteen with nothing but hopes, dreams, and red tape. I went from city to city, invading the libraries and crossing out parts of books that I didn't like. A few years later I progressed to movies. Remember in Bambi, how his mother died? No she didn't. At least, not in any of the version that I released to the public. The industry tried to stop me on numerous occasions, but failed every time because I have a constitutional right to censor. The children also backed me on this, adding to my credibility as a character witness. That would come in very handy during the intervening trial, in which I was forced to testify against myself. "But your honor," I cried to the judge. "I don't even know who I am! So how could a persona non grata knowingly break the law?" This threw him for a loop. "You don't know who or what you are, you unfortunate creature."

That was when I became a carnie. The jails were all full, so they sent me to carnie camp, where I began my lifelong association with clowns. I love clowns. Not in the classical way, where you'd just sit and laugh at the misfortune of a pathetic fool as he scrambled around in an ice hockey rink looking for his glass eye. No, this was something much more insidious. Something that Abe Lincoln would look down on. I began my descent into the bowels of carnie society with nothing but the highest expectations. But by the time carnie camp had ended, I had no idea what color was up. So then I logged into an instant messenger under someone else's name and messed up their reputation. The fool. I think it was someone named Kevin or Rob or maybe Lumley. Is Lumley even a real name? I have no idea. I'm just the Taker. The Taker of Gist.

Checkmated

2006-04-19T20:06:00.000-04:00

The bus stop ground to a halt. This big hulking figure squeezed out from behind the signpost. Despair. He walked right up to me and looked me right in the eyes. I knew that look. "Colonel Chickenpox," I beamed, "do you have any news from the front?" He looked down with a sullen scowl. "No sir!" he barked. "No news is good news!" This wasn't the first time he reported back to me with nothing of strategic import. I've had it up to your face in false status reports. I'm trying to wage effective war here, and Colonel Chickenpox is still operating on a pre-Gist mindset. He doesn't understand that in the game of Chess, you can never let the enemy capture your pawns. Even the lowliest of pawns can one day grow up to be a rook. The rooks are the ones who really hold the power. The queens think they're great, because they can move in any direction, but at the end of the day, who can castle?! Bah! You might as well En Passant a bishop in the study with the candlestick. King me.

But I really have great respect for the Colonel. Back during the sixties, he was the one who flew gold in from the moon. Why do you think no nation has ever gone to the moon since the early seventies? The Colonel did such a good job covering his tracks, no one ever found out about the hidden gold deposits buried just beneath the moon's surface. Oh, over the years there's been speculation, but idle speculation that didn't amount to anything substantial. If it did, you think the Colonel would've let it go at that? Chickenpox is a man not to be messed with, not in the classical sense at least. You can't just look at him sideways and expect to not get a shot in the jaw with his hefty left hook. That was the first mistake I made when I met him. Thought was all razzle, no dazzle. I've never been so happy to be proven wrong.

His grandkids don't like it, though. They know all about his lunar exploits, and how he accrued tons of gold for the government. But are they going to go to the press, to tell the people that they've been lied to for decades? No. They're just in it for the gold, the little grubbers. They even put the Colonel in one of those homes that you see on the news, where the elderly are forced to fend for themselves against bands of rabid dogs and squirrels. That's why I hired him as a security consultant. I didn't really need another strongman, but I couldn't bear to see my old friend rotting away over at Mouldy Acres Retirement Home. Now he's on my payroll, and I let him chase off all the teenage delinquints that he can find. He does enjoy the wheezing sound they make as they run, as most teenagers are now obese. A prince of a man.

I Care Too Much

2006-04-17T11:40:00.000-04:00

Take that out of your mouth! You think I go around all day, telling people how to live, because it makes me feel powerful? You bet I do! I care so much about controlling other peoples' lives that I regularly go to the state legislatures with radical proposals to eliminate taxes and rapidly increase spending on social programs. Why would I advocate so strongly for an economic plan that makes no sense? Because I can. Because it's the right thing to do. People don't like giving money away, but they want their government to provide for them. So why not just get the government to hand out free ice cream every week while simultaneously eliminating the taxes required to pay for the ice cream? I broached Congress with this plan last week, and I think they'll pass it. Of course, they won't credit me. I'm not a member of their exclusive Congressional Caucus. Haven't been since the fire.

They still talk about that crazy night. How was I supposed to know that the word "inflammable" meant "flammable"? I don't even speak English! And now I'm just supposed to lie down and accept the fact that my radical tax plan is being sent to the state legislatures? I didn't ask for this kind of responsibility, but now that I have it I must learn to use it wisely. Not to do so would fly in the face of everything I've ever believed in, like the tooth fairy. I just know the tooth fairy is real. All science that disputes this simple fact has already been excised from government records. I can't have that little nugget of information leak, now can I? The people must never learn that magic isn't real, lest they rebel.

Because magic is at the crux of my groundbreaking financial policy. And as president, I promise to uphold those views to within a tolerance of one light-year. Maintaining one's views is a delicate procedure in today's high-powered world of sonic vibrations and skyscrapers and orbital lasers. I have seen many good-minded people rendered inert by the sheer volume of technology. It's not good for morale, and someone like me needs to take care of it. I might as well do it, as I am the Taker of Gist, and my powers are near absolute. No one can doubt my ability to tear apart a bag of chips. You've all seen my do it. I grabbed both ends and ripped it to shreds. Then I ate all the chips without offering any to you. And why should I? You don't need more calories. You all make me want to learn to play the tuba, just so I can make a more accurate elephant noise as you waddle away, back to your domiciles.

Edmonde's Mother

2006-04-14T00:09:00.000-04:00

"Mrs. Edmonde, can Edmonde come out to play?" I asked through my ski mask. It was almost ten o'clock in the morning, and Edmonde hadn't come in to work yet, so I decided to go right to the source and tell on him to his mommy. The conversation wasn't flowing as freely as I'd originally hoped, so I had been forced to alter the parameters of my intelligence gathering. When I first arrived, I intended to learn all I could about Edmonde's past and his family history, so I could better coerce him at work to complete his projects. Instead, my every attempt to delve into the depths of Edmonde's psyche were repulsed by his ignorant matriarch.

When I first approached her, she acted like she had no idea who Edmonde was. I was all, "I'm talking about you son, Mrs. Edmonde." And she was all, "I don't have a son. And my last name isn't Edmonde." To which I replied, "Yeah, but I don't know your son's last name, so I'm just going to call you Mrs. Edmonde's mom." Then when she finally admitted that she knew who Edmonde was, she would further entice my rage with her phone calls to the president. I was amazed when I heard her talking directly to the President of Mexico. I was all, "You know Vincente Fox?" And she was all, like, "Know him? I dated him in college." And we talked for an hour about the Fox administration, and how it related to high school football. It started out as a shouting match. I was screaming about how Fox was a great man because he was the first Mexican president since 1910 that wasn't a member of the Institutional Revolutionary Party. She was demanding that I recognize the Beatles as the best football players in history. That's when I lost it. "I'm talking about American football, not soccer!" Then she started hollering about how I had no respect for the game.

So I left, never learning why Edmonde was chronically late for work. I think that tomorrow I shall write an angry letter to the government declaring my independence from them unless they apprehend Edmonde and send him to work in the salt mines. Because that's why we have organized governments. It's not like I'm paying taxes for nothing; I expect a lot more than diminishing returns on my dime and dollar. I'm paying over 300% of my annual income on imports because of high tariffs. You think I can afford it?! If Edmonde could be easily fired, I'd save so much on payroll each year. But I can't just up and fire my own boss; that's how empires get toppled. How can a king rule if the peasants rebel every time a chicken gets misplaced? You need to have proper priorities, and my faults have always been that I care too much about good grooming. I'm just not a people person.

A Horse And A Fish

2006-04-11T12:15:00.000-04:00

So this horse was galloping into town one day, and he stops in front of this, like, trough. And there's a fish in the trough, and it's swimming around, and the horse is getting thirsty. So the horse bends down, grabs the fish with its teeth, and throws the thing about half a mile. That's a horse for you, always impersonating a trebuchet. Now, I wouldn't normally waste everyone's time with a simple story of a horse and a fish, especially when no moral is evident. But I assure you, this is a parable with connotations to the business world. Yes, sir, I can tell you that hidden within this nugget of earthly wisdom is the key to your future. Let's examine this, shall we? Sometimes it helps to gain a fresh perspective on these things.

So we start out by looking at the horse. What is the horse's name? The horse wasn't given a name, and therefore he must represent the proletariat. The fish is swimming around in the horse's trough without taking the horse's needs into account, thereby personifying climate change. Now, it's common knowledge that the industrial revolution stemmed from the extreme changes in climate during the 18^th century. I know because I was there, changing the climate. Why would I do that, you ask? Because Catherine the Great wouldn't give me gold! I told her I'd change the climate if the Russian monarchy didn't give me gold to compensate for the Napoleonic wars, but did she believe me?! The answer is apparent, judging by the noxious fumes you're breathing right now.

Anyway, the interpretation of a story such as this is completely dependant on the reader. That's really the best literary device, and Kaiser Wilhelm II agreed with me. But then again, he wasn't a well known historical figure, so I really don't care what he thinks. I mean, Wilhelm is a nice guy and all, but he doesn't pop. He's like a house that's painted white when all the other houses on the block are yellow. If he was painted red or blue or some secondary color, it might make a difference. But if I was to base my current culinary tastes on the flavor of the historical entity, he'd rank dead last on my little taste test. And that's why they call me "The Taker."

Mr. Car

2006-04-09T20:50:00.000-04:00

I met this guy on the subway the other day as I was coming home from work. I was all, "Hey, buddy, get out of my way." And he was all, "I don't have to make way for you, for I am a kindred spirit." This left me a little perplexed, but he continued. "I'm a kindred spirit, not with you, but with your car." I exploded, "My car?! You fool, if I had a car, would I be taking the subway?! No, I'd be driving, you half-brained teetotaler!" It was his turn to stand there perplexed. "Oh. Right. Never mind. I was confused there for a second." Then he turned around and started to walk off. I stopped him, and asked if he was all right. I'm a good samaritan sometimes, to make up for my money laundering schemes. It keeps the celestial ledger nice and level.

"No, I'm most positively not all right, in any way, shape, or form," he said. Then he collapsed into a crumpled heap and water started pouring out of his ears. It was the creepiest thing I've ever seen in my life, like out of some science fiction horror film. Staring Tom Cruise as a constable on the wrong side of the law. But after the strange man evaporated, I got a good look at the clothes and wallet that remained. His name was Augustus Car, which is probably why he felt he was a kindred spirit with my car. People's last names mean so much more than we'd like to think.

For example, this morning on my way to work, I saw this guy in the street acting out a scene from some Shakespeare play. Most likely MacBeth, as he was covered in green goo. And when I asked him his last name, he said "My last name, my good sir, is Westpaulexeterbythingstein." I mean, is that even a real name?! But if he wasn't totally bluffing me, then it's the perfect Shakespeare name. Shakespeare was a close personal friend of mine, and even helped me get elected King of France after the storming of the Bastille. You know why they called it Bastille? Because Bastille was my dog's last name. That's right, I named a famous French city after my dog. Big whoop. Wanna fight about it? I thought not. Coward. Shakespeare never even tried to fight me. He knew he was outmatched after the first time I made him cry "uncle" on a crowded street in the middle of London. This was post-plague, in case you can't keep up at home.

Night Of The Sunbeams

2006-04-06T22:57:00.000-04:00

I awoke with a start. Someone was downstairs, messing with my stereo. Who would break into my house just to mess with my stereo? Why not just take it? Then it all became clear to me. My worst foe must be trying to plant wire taps on my stereo! But who was my worst foe? Could it be Edmonde, that foolish Gist mill worker who I dispise so much? No, couldn't be. He was in Canada this week, on a conference call. Then I began to think back on all the times Colonel Chickenpox took me to the zoo as a child. There was always that one hideous creature who hated me, the koala bear.

And sure enough, as soon as I lumbered down the stairs, a whole family of koala bears scattered off into the night. Nothing burns my biscuits more than koala bears. They've always hated me, ever since that time back at the zoo when I refused to turn over my popcorn. But now, to bug my phones? I only have one landline, and I can't stand to lose it. It's my window to the world! So I worked up the courage to go all the way to the koala's homeland, Australia. I flew all the way to Canberra, where I demanded an audience with the Prime Minister. He and I go way back. I helped him move.

So I was bustin' some rhymes with the Prime Minister of Australia, and I was all, "So you're in your third term. How's that working out?" And he was all, "Don't talk about that now. It's after six o'clock, I don't have to worry about all that. Besides, I'm on my fouth term." That got my boiling under the coller. "John, I'm about to lose my mind! Give me one reason I shouldn't tell your mom you've been stealing bicycles!" But he apologized, so I left it at that and we just spent the night jamming. Then I told him about my little koala problem, and he gave me some anti-Eucalyptus juice. "Just pour it around your property," he shouted between the drum-beats, "and you'll never see another koala bear! Trust me, I hate them just as much as you do!" And from that day on, I never saw another marsupial.

Bride Of Edmonde

2006-04-04T21:49:00.000-04:00

Yes, it was Edmonde's wedding today. Good show, mate. We've had our differences over the years, but when the rice starts flying, it's game over. Yes, it was a marvelous day- that is, of course, hinged on the fact that Edmonde exists at all. And if he did exist, then it certainly was a good time. We had cake and parfait, and I was the best man. Yeah, Edmonde finally swallowed his pride and asked me to be the one to hold the ring. That's when I got the idea for the best prank ever.

I secretly ran over to Burger King right before the ceremony, and bought a whopper jr. along with a side order of chili and a bag of onion rings. While the minister was reading off the standard vows, I chewed extremely loudly. Half the procession stopped to stare at me. "How inconsiderate," I heard them whisper. If only they knew what I had in store for the happy couple... yes, just a little longer, I told myself. Soon Edmonde would be repaid for all his little indiscretions on the job.

So anyway, when it came time to exchange rings, I handed Edmonde one of the onion rings I bought earlier. You know, the bag of onion rings I got at Burger King? I told you all this. You need to keep up. So I gave him the onion ring, and he was all, "ha ha, this isn't funny. Give me the ring." So I was all, "Oh, Edmonde! I had no idea I gave you an onion ring! Here, let me get the expensive wedding ring you were planning to give you-" and then I drop-kicked that guy. Right on the alter. His whole family got up and started screaming, but by then I was a mile away. I'm a star athlete. The fool, he never saw it coming. Drop-kicked at his own wedding. A fate befitting a fool who would defy the Taker of Gist. I guarantee.

Cooking With Danger

2006-04-02T00:03:00.000-05:00

Frying up a hot batch of deep-fried chicken is a lot harder to do these days. Ever since the poultry worker rebellion of 1958, it's nigh impossible to export beef at reasonable rates. This fluctuates the market, driving up the price of chicken cutlets. Now, I'm not one to eat more than I can, but sometimes I get a hankering for a chicken cutlet parmesan. Where in the world can I buy such a delightful treat? It makes for a very satiating meal, that chicken cutlet. Ever wonder where we'd be if not for the chicken farmer?

I have. That's why I ran a cost-projection analysis for the department of the interior a few years ago. They were measuring the impact the loss of chicken farming would have on the American public, and I just had to add my two cents. You should know, you were there. Don't think I didn't see you shuddering in the corner, trying to get the stench of chicken off your clothes. We've all got a little chicken on us. But as long as you're my assistant, I expect nothing less than total perfection. I'm not paying you to goldbrick.

Anyway, the most important asset we've got is chicken. So I told the secretary of the interior, and I quote, "You can't do away with chicken farming! It's all we've got!" But that secretary had no way to know if I was telling the truth or not. You've got to take some things at face value, but you've also got to know when to dig deeper. The fool had no idea. So after we managed to get our pro-chicken agenda through Congress, we all had a big party. I didn't invite Colonel Chickenpox, as he was staunchly anti-chicken. I swore that if he showed up uninvited, I would call his grandchildren and tell then where he was. They've been looking for him for some time now, and I just want to be a good samaritan. Always looking out for the little guy, that's me.

Firetrucks Make Good Pets

2006-03-31T14:54:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-29T13:06:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-27T11:37:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-25T13:02:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-24T15:11:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-23T13:47:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-22T14:21:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-21T18:03:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-20T21:42:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-19T00:52:00.000-05:00

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!

2006-03-15T14:53:00.000-05:00

"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!

2006-03-13T19:27:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-10T13:29:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-08T21:55:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-06T14:54:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-02T10:37:00.000-05:00

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?!

Deep In The Heart Of Gist

2006-02-28T19:08:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-26T18:10:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-24T08:40:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-22T08:41:00.000-05:00

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?

2006-02-20T14:00:00.000-05:00

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!

2006-02-18T11:43:00.000-05:00

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!"

2006-02-17T08:40:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-15T21:02:00.000-05:00

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!

2006-02-14T22:24:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-13T21:24:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-12T00:03:00.000-05:00

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!

2006-02-11T00:01:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-10T08:51:00.000-05:00

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?

2006-02-09T17:15:00.000-05:00

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.