Scary Science {No.1}

EVOLUTION: Yeah or Neigh

We live in a world comprised of millions of cells. Cellular structure and function is the cornerstone to all natural sciences. Evolution would lead you to believe that one of these cells, located in your body, used to be inside this guys body….

I have a huge differ to beg. That's buried-alive scary.

Playing second fiddle to some ancient swimming rat is not where my cells used to be. Some say that horses are whales who were once into swimming…

Does this look like a horse-whale?

The explanation for this 6th grade art contest scribble is….

“Whales evolved from split-hooved land mammals. Very little is known about the animals that first ventured into the water, so drawings are entirely speculative.”

This sh*t is frightening.

Art Day!

{Some of the following are from the interestingly uneasy mind of elevendy twelven, others are not. But all display an aspect of genius that only comes from the most basic of color of Cyan...}

Cobbler Robber - Displays the inner-most wanton need to both have and steal cobbler. May also refer to some other definition of cobler; the double "b" may be there to throw uneducated viewers through a creamy pie-like hoop. By Walter Shovelsfull.
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Flesh eats Watermelon, Finally - This piece speaks to the desire to have it all: movement, eyes, watermelon. Yes, feel the need. By Matt Jason.
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Hospitals R' Fun - Need we say more? By Janet Shuttleford.
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Man of Dreams if your dreams include Beaches and Space - Yes, note the hair. The excess both on the head and the chest is a metaphor for the duality of humankind, both the commander of life and the commanded. So real and combing. By Margot Ennial
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Altered Hue-Man - Sometimes things have to explode out of you to really get your attention, be it sadness or caffeine excess. This piece articulates that to a bloody "t". And, reflexively, Red Bull may be the bloody tea of a generation. By Alex Novelsworth.

Indeed.

According to the following slide, you have apparently gone way too far.

The Melted Half

(illustration by illy jimmy b.)

{Supportive author Trent Ables offers reflections on one of the smaller moments of life. For more info, check here for Trent's day affirmation.}

The digital-cinnamon LCD clock turned to the hour of 12:00. Realizing that this was the latest I had ever stayed up, I lazily glanced over at the green metal box hanging in the car window. The noises issuing from the battered speaker were die-cast explosions that sounded like a million Hot-Wheels being dumped onto pavement. The light from the screen sat in the reflection of the varnished hoods and chrome work, all pretending to be little movies. We were parked in a lot that had been dressed up and taken out for drinks, as it always was during the mild summer nights. I began to notice all of the smells surrounding the car. The roof had given way to the fabric that concealed it, draping the interior like a tarp covering a fresco. The blanket contained a peculiar mixture of smoke-stain and dryer-exhaust.

I leaned back in the seat spilling some of the cold and chewy popcorn into the back. I hunched over and, blindly groping the floor, tried to clean it up as best I could. I came back with a handful of sticky pennies, popcorn, and a crayon. This was a typical handful of in-car leavings, but the crayon struck me as being out of place. The family I was with had children that were not specifically of coloring age. Both of the brothers were from Florida and had motley hair cuts that reminded me of failed Keanu coif. These were not the people who would color. The gender of this crayon was ‘Cornflower.’ This color had nothing to do with corn, or my preconceived notions towards the colors of flowers. This was a nomad in the vast desert of car floor, hopelessly searching for a shred of paper to feel itself becoming on. It was getting used to the idea that no matter what the surroundings would be, it would never be remembered to these people. However it came to be settled on this short haired floor, this would be its last tour of a color duty, never embarked on. Yet here I was, holding this tool in my hand, bent over the car seat, still pretending to look for a self-created mess. I squeezed it and this became more important than the gigantic spectacle of a movie playing in front of our car windows.

I color with my wife sometimes. She has shown me the subtle art of shading, divulged the secret of consistent direction of strokes, and shown the beauty of Cornflower. The drive-in has lost its screen and been made into a parking lot. Just a regular parking lot.

Amazingness Hitting Selves Soon - "Pooping Through the Wig" Book!

For the first time ever, author Kenneth Tablescoash discusses this monumental work with the layman.

"I never knew that so many people would get ‘behind’ this project, and coming from a purely statistical background, the proof is in the numbers. More Americans are pooping through their ass-wigs than ever and it’s time to tell not only my story, but theirs as well!"
- Kenneth Tablescoash, author of Pooping Through the Wig

"...an instant classic to be cherished for years to come--an all at once horrifyingly touching and memorable testament to the human spirit." --Matt Lauer, Today Show

Includes indelible insight and information
on such all-encompassing topics as:

• Pooping
• Wipe Allocation
  
• Game Planning
  
• Showering
  
• Income/Outcome
  
• Disability
  
• Clinger Accumulation
• Education
• Ass Forecasting
  

This is so important, and in these difficult times, it’s even more importanter to remember that no matter who you meet or how far you get in this world, chances are not only do you have crap in your cheeks, but they do too. Chappy butt flaps are a common thing, and have nothing to do with wipe-coverage.

Published by Sweep It Clean Books

Please call for a copy of this amazing book

432 Any Street West Townsville, State 54321 USA (543) 555-0150 (800) 555-0150 www.backitup.com

High School Reunion Reply

{We here at elevendy twelven like to look forward, not back. So continuing our tradition of awkward, yet creative, randomness, we will not be attending our high school reunion. Scrupe!}

Mr. Reunion Organizer,

I've sent back the sheet you wanted me to fill out. Thanks for sending it my way.

I have to say that, surprisingly, I found your email incredibly refreshing. I think was expecting some sort of themed email when this time came. A kind of overly glossified correspondence reminding me to "party like it's 1999" again, or break out my Lee jeans and King Soopers belt. But not you. You were Succinct. A kind of anorexic message showing no fat whatsoever. Even the lack of a salutation--something like a 'Thank you' or 'Talk to you soon'--made me feel so, well, painfully welcome to this whole project. Thanks. Honestly, it was a great email to receive.

I must warn you that my "help" in this project will be incredibly limited. You see, over the last five years or so I've become a recluse of sorts. The human affairs of danger and dignity--those instances that transpire through and across the lives of each and everyone--have left me emotionally obese; have scarred the face of my confidence in repugnant ways; and have resulted in moral disfigurement. In short, I live in New York.

Actually, my mind and face melted into an ooze of disbelief when I saw you on the 1 train not more then seven months ago. Or was it the A? Either way, there you where, reading a book, propped up against the subway door (just like they tell you not to)--seemingly as yourself as you ever where. Actually, there is still a seed of doubt in my mind as to whether or not it was you, and you may confirm that seed bursting into a flower of mistaken identity, but as I stole looks at this person from across the way, I convinced myself that it was you. Probably studying at Columbia, furthering your education--or maybe even teaching out here as I remember you had a penchant for foreign languages. Either way, it made my night--the constant guessing, the wondering what you were up to. So if it was you or not, thanks. I appreciate it. Because I remember when I used to think (silently and aloud) that you would be a great toothpaste model. Geeze, I was an asshole. Maybe still am. But I said that in reference to your great and infectious smile--the one aspect of you I do and will always remember. So if you took, or take, offense to that cavity-fighting line of thinking, please know that it comes from a genuine place of endearment and nostalgia.

Upon reading your email for the up-teenth time, I realize that maybe you too are not exactly super excited about putting this together. But if you imagine me saluting you right now, with a face of pride and admiration, you would get a fairly accurate picture of me this instant, as we type. The only difference is that I'm not sure if you're imagining me sitting or standing. Know that I'm sitting right now, but will be standing later--so I guess either works.

In summation:
Will I attend the reunion? Um, no. The only reason I would like to attend would be to you see you and gauge the uneasiness this email may have created between us. But you know what: it's better then nothing--which is what we had before this email.

Will I help? Sources say "not all that much." If you need small donations or something of that sort, I can probably throw those your way. But if you're looking for someone to do mass emailing or sleuthing, you'll have a hard time hearing back from me. In situations like that I use snail mail. Actually, I have a facebook group called "Letter Writers Unite!" We write each other constantly but meet online every second Thursday of each month. It's fun. And redundant. Check us out.

I hope all is well with you. I really do. And thank you for involving me in this process. It doesn't look like I'll be doing much, but I do appreciate the correspondence.

Explosively yours,

selfstonishment

Suprise Steve!

Surprise –

We were crouching. Our legs, arms, and torsos had been snuggled tightly behind the outline of Steve’s couch. All of us had managed to hide our bodies very well, while I was busy trying to hide my emotions. The tingling in my feet was the first sign, the neurons firing like twelve rifles at a funeral for the contents of my bowels. Hold on…I started sweating like a Nelly video, but decided that the surprise would be all too much with no clothes on. It was getting hot in there though. A deep quiver slammed through my gut. There was no way I would be able to explode from a dead squat AND give surprise birthday wishes. We all held on to the couch. I was the only one clinging to it like a bloated chunk of driftwood. I was alone floating in a river of fear and on my way to the ocean…the dark, cold ocean.

Keys. Jingling and dropped. Our accomplice was nervously explaining how it would be good to just have a quiet night. Laughing. How could they laugh? My heart jumped into my leg warmers, and a dash of pee blessed my underwear. The look on my face was a smile and the coy apprehension of a female spy who knows how to get the information she wants…oh she knows. The door opened and time slowly approached a complete stop. Frozen behind Steve’s couch we looked at each other for the right time to spring. Not knowing exactly what certain hand gestures meant, we took our time trying to decipher when we would rise. Rise indeed like an ambushed Lazarus from a once sullen and dark grave. We all would become a pillar of shock and celebration that would mark Steve’s 31st making it the most 31sty it could ever be. At that moment we shot upward.

“Surpirse!” The following happened in under a tenth of a second: Steve looked at us as if we were a loved one visiting from the deep, quiet sleep of eternal life, he then smiled and it was at that moment that I was overwhelmed with fear. A fear so complete and consuming that I raised my hands to my face, as if to defend my silken emotions from the tarnish of solid dread. Nothing could stop the scream bellowing in my salivating mouth. I yelled in horror. My waist size shot up a number, due to the sh*t overflowing my jeans. Surprised Steve?

Not like me, oh no….not like me.