Abe Vigoda's envelope

There were whispers. On my ear hung a clinging truth: That tonight would yield a visit from the Mid-town Magi, in an undisclosed form. We finished the obviously piano-sized drinks at the BBQ eatery, only to decide that more would not be less. We skated through the revolving door, greeted by the crisp autumn breeze. Downtown bound. We cage fought with our musings; using half-nelson's of diatribe, and suplex's of supposition.

In between gnashing at the rim of our Sapporo deuce-deuce's, we detected that we were being tailed. We ducked into an inlet of stairs and rails, tucked inside the crotch of a building. The ashen pavement, still thick with the sweat caused by sister sun's departure, gleamed like distant a headlamp in the alabaster glow of the streetlight. Covered in the sheets of sound emanating from the avenue, footfalls presented themselves. They clod and clamored at the sidewalk. In them you could hear history. Of red carpet, pauses for pictures and questions, the pull of the arm urging them to enter some black tie event.


Visibly shaken, we both started to feel cold. A thin veneer covered our eyes, gone misty like maternal movie pairings of menstruation and "Terms of Endearment." We started to shed tears. Enough to fill half of my favorite snowglobes. And then, there in front of us on 72nd in between Lex and 3rd, in a somber midnight procession, was Abe Vigoda. We had entered his envelope. Behind him a cloud of shapes followed. Apparitions of Inuit shaman carried a 12 foot totem pole, emblazoned with the faces of the fallen: Raul Julia, Ruth Buzzy, Siskel. Me and my company started to rise, and almost joined the slow dirge marching to some hideous unheard drum. I scrambled for the last real object I had; my Sapporo Deuce. I threw it into the air. Explosions of Asian celebratory dragons sparked through the space between us, illuminating the avenue like a second Venus.

In a glimpse, it had all ended. Abe Vigoda scooted across Lexington. Billows of steam surrounded his exit, as the 6 train blew towards 77th. We had never before, or again been in his dominion. But good luck does not surround the unprepared. We had Sapporo Deuce happy-sureheadedness on our side. However to the unaware, Vigoda's envelope can be quite treacherous.

RoBot Prom

by Jenny Bandwith

Hey Eagles!

If we were given the ability to feel, how amazing would you be doing it right now?

Enchanted Ratios, this year’s RoBot Prom––the culmination of years of data downloads, specification alignment, and nervously awaiting those monthly systems check––was a delicious success. So tasty in fact, that if we could taste, we would all be savoring the sweet aftereffects of a time now irrelevant. But now, the matriculation towards a college upgrade looms and many of us can’t stop calculating for the future. In short, never has the math of tomorrow stung so enchantedly against the metal of our bodies, mind, and processors. That’s what RoBot Prom is all about.

Jonald Capacitor and Stiffinay Gridlock took home the crowns and the gowns known only to RoBot Prom royalty. Jonald, a chess champion and captain of the DeFrag team, accepted his honors with a steely resolve; an example to us all in danger of falling victim to the poison of personal achievement. And Stiff, as her friends call her, bowed as graciously as one could, I suppose. Especially when one maybe, possibly, most likely won the crown after skewing the wireless voting machines, letting a certain TI-3867 model lick her scuzzy port clean, and spewing lies into the ether-lattice. But, we all were happy for these two. Of course, there were some not so happy and who took home a peculiar burning sensation in their D: drives thanks to Kenwood Copperwire’s roaming charges, but all-in-all, the Royalty Presentation for Enchanted Ratios was amazingly well programmed.

Of course, there were the dissenters. Those who claim that this year’s RoBot Prom–– deemed the closest we as adolescent robots will ever get to dreaming––was very capable of being not-dreamed about. But then, when Franz Smartload placed seven Stalag-vage-chips into the oil bowl, and ‘bots (and their dates) washed down a sip, suddenly everyone had to Norton Anti Virus in their date’s USB. How Gross! But it still seemed to reboot those few whose attitude programs were glitched. Thank Intel!

The decoration of the main pavilion was minimal, but the streamers lined with bits of code profiling each senior and their current location was a nice touch. I lost my date for a few seconds and these really came in handy. But the visual accomplishment of the night belonged solely to HAMMERS, HAMMERS, HAMMERS, the after-prom most of everybody went to and most of everybody found worth downloading.

HAMMERS, HAMMERS, HAMMERS was the brain child of the Proxy Technical Alliance (PTA) that promised to throw us in a historical wormhole taking us back to the bonded molecule era were such tools like hammers, hammers, and hammers were used. It’s always a pleasure to learn about pre-futuristic cultures, but as an After-Prom theme it was efficiently humorful. Some days, although there aren’t many, I do wish we could laugh because on this glorious night, we would have laughed at hammers.

The program was efficiently arranged in Mircosoft Paint 8.0 and featured everyone’s favorite color, Cyan. The animated 3-D GIFFs led interested bot units toward something historically special, like a fountain, or a human raffle, and, lastly, a 20th century tool shed with connected revolving bathroom. Later on, the presentation on Centrifugal force (using the bathroom) and pre-futuristic Organ farming was also deemed an algorithmic success.

HAMMERS, HAMMERS, HAMMERS all started, though, with Sergeant Server’s JROTC color guard launching of our nation’s numbers. And yes, it may be verified that nothing starts a party like these guys don’t, but there is still something to be said about tradition. Do you power up, or down, differently everyday? Thought not.

And unfortunately HAMMERS, HAMMERS, HAMMERS ended when a hall detector caught three jock bots slapping a vacuum in the bathroom. They have been reprimanded with cleanup duties and are not allowed to browse online for three weeks. And then there were the theater kids, snorting WD40 across the street from the activities. Like someone wasn’t going to see you! We’re robots.

Sadly, a few stripped screws ruined it for the rest of us, but the time that was had was incredible, according to the school WiFi poll taken this morning. We each feel ready for the next step, armed with the know-how of tomorrow and oh so aware of the mistakes made in the past. Even if the hammer, and the hammer, and the hammer were great tools, we have many more tools at our disposal for shaping and roboting the future. And I, for one, cannot wait to utilize them.

Go Eagles!

Chart Climbing, Other Things

These charts are now more climbable than ever this year, and now we have hit clearance season. You know what that means---all climable charts MUST GO! Sick of struggling through rehersals just to come back and not remember what you didn't cover last week. Well thats all good and done with because guess what? These charts feature much more climbability than any previous charts before. Charts that are climbable mean time that isn't wasted on working things out with people, can be dedicated to...that's right, climbing the f**kin charts. You'll find that you climb fast once you take that first step. Upgraded charts with a slim design and climb-like action will increase step uppingness to 7%, making your weekends alot more chilled out. More free time, more kicking it...up the charts! You ever seen K-2? That looked like it was pretty hard climbing up that thing. Not here mon ami. You ever seen somebody have a bitch of a time cutting into some water, with a knife? No?
That's because it's easy and simple and fun, not unlike climbing them there
charts.

FLASH TO SCREEN PLAY---

YOU: What's going on charts?
CHARTS: Nothing.
YOU: What are you doing later?
CH: Getting climbed all over.
YOU: Yesssss.

Your probably saying 'this is crazy! I can't climb them charts.' My response would be: have you even looked at the charts lately? Now with a foldable fulcrum that gently balances you out, while you tear ass up the charts, climbing these things has never been easier. You see that up there? Waaayy at the top? Huh? Thats the top of the charts. You know how close you'll get with more increasable climb-drive mechanisms? Pretty close my friend. Pretty close.

By the way.....
Org Vorbis, the norse tortoise lord of the north, orders all to report for
chordal contort morph. Torte will be scored more for Lords of swords,
snacking door fjords tore the 3rd course, but with plates and napkins
provided to the first 500, get there EARLY!!!

If you've found the missing bullet I fired into the air yesterday at my
cousin's quinceinetta, DO NOT RETURN. That was a gift, and you might want
to get that looked at.

Gift horse looked in mouth.

Also, blessings come in many forms. Like smells. You ever been blessed by a
smell? I want my next priest to be a waft in the air. What happened to my
previous priest? I can't say, but this next one coming up...gotta be a smell.

Memories of Remberance: A Tribute to Never Forgetting

{1st installment}

I want to tell you a story:

You can fly.



That’s not this story though.

This is a different story. More about me:

That summer I don’t think anyone could say what was in the air. But we all took it in like a cat from the late June snow and cradled it in specially marked packages of frosted mini-memories.

You see, I was raised on a caramel farm right outside of Muncy, Indiana. We lived on seven acres, where in late October we would harvest the nougat and caramel in hand-woven baskets.

The sun hung low in the autumn sky, kind of like a briefcase wouldn’t. We looked at each other, but we couldn’t hear, so our senses of smell led us to the feeling that this would be enough caramel pickin’ for the night.

Well, that summer the marzipan was in season and we would shuck and pick the sweet treat off the foreheads of the lifeless unicorns buried in the snow.

I would laugh.

Then we would all take turns farting on Grandma.

When we were tired, we turned in. But that night I woke up as if in a dream (echo: dream, dream, dream). I walked toward the window and out in the fields were piles on piles of glowing, wooden sea lion skulls.

I laughed. And then tried to fart on my brother, but he just rolled over.

So, I farted on my own butt. And laughed because it reminded me of ice cream—really smelly, hot, putrid ice cream.

I’ll never forget how I remembered that memory.

With my memory.

I’ll never forget that.

Palace of Local Monstrosities to Close

Middle Earth-Tuesday

Local Mordor residents were shocked with news that it’s only gentle-orc’s club, The Meadows, will be shut down as of Thursday.

The news of the closure sent shock waves from Moira to Isengard as the establishment, founded during The Second Age, sometime after the fall of Numenor, was a pillar of class and savvy throughout the dry, barren, desolate steppes of Nurn. Offering stunning views of Barad-Dur and Orodruin, the club featured butterfly-eating competitions, Sauron Karaoke Wednesdays, and the famous Flesh-Stripping Cabarets featuring several happy, yet unfortunate passersby touring the Land of Shadows.

Receiving a boost from the Mordor Board of Tourism during the early 670’s The Meadows enjoyed great reviews from critics, most touting it as “the premiere place for empty ocular stuffed spider balls.”

The Meadows manager/owner Thromurth K’k, an orc himself, was disenchanted as he loaded a dragon-pulled covered wagon full of armor, swords and napkins.

“Gurrk sak hurrgle! Hurrgle!” K’k shouted.

Thromurth’s college buddy Vrirk Hurbag translated for elevendy twelven: “I guess this is how they thank you for holding up the entertainment standards in this soul-forsaken, piss stain excuse for a town!” Obviously, K’k does not feel the need to hide his disappointment in the decision.

An open auction will be held this weekend to distribute the unused corpses and silverware. Though Mr. K’k plans to open a Circle K© in Orthanc, he still is a little weepy as he gazes back at the gaping cave-hole adorned with trees made of bodies, skeletons and excrement that served as his once-famous and well-received establishment.

Board members showed up to help load Thromurth’s wagon, but after several bitten faces, Mr. K’k called the group a bunch of “Ash-holes” and flew away on his getaway dragon.

Dirty Talk, Vol. 1: Physical Scientist, geomorphology edition

- Get lost in my hairy estuary.
- I have business with your isthmus.
- I felta your delta.
- My peninsula is now surrounded by you on three sides.
- My cape wants your cove.
- Woo my dunes.
- You are so seismic right now.
- Coat the wetlands with volcanic ash.
- I like it from the backwater terrace.
- Mark your marsh for geologic surveying.
- Atoll (sexy by itself)
- I want you to swim in my man-made lake, or reservoir.
- Hold tight to my stalagmite.
- I’m growing crystals in my cave.
- Hold on! Slope my beveled cut.
- Pet the aquitard. Pet it!
- Let me till your badlands.
- Wade in the backswamp.
- Stand by for the eruption of my Sentinel Bluffs Member lava flow, which marks the end of Grande Ronde Basalt volcanism, the most voluminous period of the Columbia River Basalt Group!!

Thoughts on Jesus' Tomb

Sorry Sha*e's Father,
I had to catch your attention? Anyways, on a serious note, I've pin pointed the coordinates of the freckles on your bald noggin and I've found Jesus's skeleton. Now this is a matter that we cannot take lightly, for I will not give these bones to the James Cameron Foundation unless we have an agreement that I get to see these bones three times a week.

I've proposed a plan:
Monday 12.30-2p: Lunch with bones.
Wednesday 3.00-4p: Massage with bones.
Sunday 11.30-1p. Brunch with Mary Magdalene's bones

(You know what I'm talking about).

If this does not fit your schedule please contact me, or if there is any concern with the bone's safety during our special time let me know.

I look forward to hearing from you.
Love,
MILK DUD

P.S. 10% off the top straight to God.
P.SS. Rest your space face next to mine?
P.Sx3. Have you seen Sh*ne? I have.
P.Sx4. You should read The Road by Cormac Mcarthy.

Peace out Dog. Keep it real, thug ass.

Blog Topics

- No room on my shelves for trophies, so I place them on the window ledge. Passer-bys are astonished, yet they don't know why and for what I have received these trophies. This is an actual window in the UWS-upper west side.
-In clown college I was known as the class not-clown...guilty of not clowning around.
-I'm so nice I failed out of villain school. (old, however classy)
- The sun also sweats.
- This too shall pass...gas.
- In my closet there are only enough hangers for all my hangables. Today I found at least 4 of them not hanging anything. I want answers!
- Aidsvertisment---now THATS catchy!
- A round table discussion with animals on why we shouldn't kill them. No one attends=animals killed.
- A round table conversation with plants on why they don't shape up. Only cauliflower shows up and we go out for drinks. Awkward pauses only articulated by the weird "come back to my field for a cup of coffee"-type comments. End result=plants shape up.
- The middle of the USA is located in Rugby, Nebraska. The tallest structure is also in Nebraska--a TV antennae 2,039 ft. tall.
- Children of the Gilded Age, bobbing for chunks of copper. This is the origin of the phrase "Go for Gold!" But gold didn't come into it until later. This also brought dental hygiene into fashion.

Local Rapper Battles Baby Panda, Wins

VS.

Ronald Shortblock reporting

RIFLE, CO––MC Chillability showed his self-quoted “Freeziness” to a wowed-out crowd as he crushed a baby panda with rhyme lasers last night.
It was due to be a massive battle, a struggle of wit and cleverosity, but ended in panda-shaped shame. Venom like this came from Chillability:

You'll high five me then I slap your face
You can't pull peace treaty Asian panty waste
I'll flood your homeland like the 3 fu%#in' Gorges
Take your mom panda some flowers that are gorgeous
I'll destroy ya'

Such lyrical face-melting like this was usually followed with an obscene gesture, Chillability’s secret intimidation technique, and at one point he spit in the face of the stupid, stupid panda. The small animal’s only reply to such debasement, if one could call it a reply, was:

hrghnhghr... Slurgh.

In all fairness, yes, it rhymes, but is nowhere close to witty or coherent, two things that the judges look for in such verbal bullet-based blitzkriegs. A fact Chillability knows all too well. Please note other licks of the organic box-cutter that is his tongue:

Your a long way from China b*tches
Like my dishes
I'll choke your Yin if you touch my Yang
I'll cover you in curry and feed you to orangutans
I’ve reached 3rd base with like 20 sluts
While you were busy comin’ out ya’ momma's butt

Has a heavier truth ever been told? The crowd last night--some of which were Chillability’s own “The ChillBillies” entourage--thought not, while the panda just sat and had the look in its cowed eyes like it had just been molested in the mouth a little bit.

The Numbers

• 83: the percentage of sadness at which you can operate a motorcycle without crashing
• 10: the most traumatic age for fingerless persons
• V: stands for vagic, Roman numerically speaking
• 6: the number of cars you think you parked last night
• 2: percentage of love for sloth-eating eagles in the rainforests of Borneo
• 1: number of impressive sloth-eating eagles in Borneo
• 0: the difference it makes in previous statement about love for these flying cowards
• 7: I’ll kick that number’s ass anyday
• 8: is just a vertical ballsack
• 420: Caloric intake by Dead Head fan Moonbeam Peterson, all in muffins and dried fruit
• 49: the number of times you've tried to leave your bi-polar spouse
• -346,738: the rate, mph, of a speeding comet approaching itself
  

Curd vs. Whey, part VII

CURD GETS KICKED TO CURB!!!

Yogurt:
Stop picking your nose.

Cottage Cheese:
I don't have a nose.

Yogurt:
Really?

Cottage Cheese:
Yes.

Local Child Stretches The Truth

Terra Haute, IN
by Dr. Slacks Meridian, Child Psychologist

It's official. The illustrator of the attached drawing is obviously not correct in interpreting reality. There is no way, logistically, this pet exists. Or that its name is Dakota.

Hours Wasted

- The Banana tree is in danger. Like the Oak has never felt.
- We spent our night naming toilet paper (Soft & Touch…The Fighting Wipe).
- How would you ambush someone in space?
- The latest cosmetic magazine from Conde Nast Publications, Lips and Chests.
- Cornell West is the black Lauren Hutton. (period)
- My friend poops like a cat.
- Cars are human tow trucks.
- Feet are hands gone wrong.
- Note to self: Always say ‘bitch’ after you hit the weed.
- Knead my sex loaf.
- “Ask somebody the next time you see them.”
- There are no kittens in Kosovo.
- Standing the taste of time.
- I find myself being critical of everything I don’t do.
- “Can I get your email? I’m much different in words.”
- Expand. Achieve. Excieve.

An Open Letter to Animals

Dear Aardvark,
I wonder sometimes about your dedication? You think because you have the ability to sneak, under the detection of desert predators, you're immune to the same demands put on us by human society? Joke's on you asshole. So what! Your teeth have no enamel coating and are worn away and regrow continuosly . Is that a gift? Because last time I checked, that was reserved for sharks, shit for brains. Do you eat ants? No? Thought not.
love,
Jake


Dear Manatee,
What's up cloudy butt? Fat much? Yeah, look in my propeller. I feel sorry for you and your father manatee. You guys cruise the Keys lookin for free handouts, but the Good Fat Lardy-Pop stops here! I want nothing more than to eat a slice of Dugong Quiche, or blast my next dope rhyme printed on fat ass mammal paper! You're a disgrace,
I love you,
Jake
p.s. your a douche floating loser


Dear Meerkat,
Is that a new trick you learned? Being a total whimp? You are the Joy Behar of the animal kingdom. I see you once, I'm interested. One more time, I want to spork my eyes out, you filthy bag of monkey leftovers spiked with prarie dog refuse. How is that CD of your college band going? Sounds pretty good Meerkat...your Joe Satriani covers blew me away! I just shit your pants, call me,
Yours forever,
Jake

Sponge Monk Beat Pants, Adventure Uno

Underwater discoveries…