so many

no time no time no time not iem tno etime notime notiem tnoem tnieom notime noteiom tneointeionteion noteoim niotiem notieom notiem notiome too busy sthinking

Population Control

One way to possibly control our soon-to-be-/already-done-been-a-thing population problems could be to make random rules where you die if you break them. Like when you draw a Jack(?) during that random drinking game, only with permanent irrevocable consequences.

But myriad legal issues. Say our first rule is, “anyone who says the word ‘derriere’ ever again will be humanely euthanized ASAP.” Immediate Fourteenth Amendment challenge on basis of national origin from the French. And what of the farmer who lazily comments on the crisp smell outside the milking stall one morning? “Big Pun: How an Off-the-rolled-up-denim-cuff Remark Killed One Sleepy Rural Town’s Beloved Mime.” Because his hobby was doing mime stuff. As a farmer they could take him or leave him; something about seedy pasteurization practices.

And honestly even the “beloved” part was a stretch: lacking the spatial confines of urban life, his routine consisted of acting out his freedom to explore the vast, open country, manifesting in his running off in a premeditated but undisclosed cardinal direction for hours, sometimes days on end. While a small handful of townsfolk, most of whom had done a stint in some epicenter of commerce or other themselves, championed the farmer-mime’s avant-/apres-garde (d)evolution of the art, most instead regarded the dramatic disappearances as eccentric jaunts, if not the fugues of an outright madman.

The “big pun” thing, too, is really just a blatant misunderstanding of what wordplay even is, and invoking an oversized former rap artist truly sounds the falsest of notes in this homogenous white agriscape, provoking several readers of the weekly local newspaper to query whether the fall of said medium might be more merits-based than previously believed.

First Paragraph of Imaginary Urinal Short Story

I feel like I’m the sort of person who people get curious about what my dick looks like when they’re standing next to me at a urinal. They might feel an unidentified urge to peek over. To peer or to peek, depending on the infrastructure. Sinistrally. Surreptitiously. But while I know of their curiosity, I know not from whence it comes. Nor do they. Nothing about my zipper dexterity or an aural inference of stream strength or the length of silence between the one and the other suggests non-Euclidean geometry, a repulsive carbuncle, or an ironic tattoo of a Wonderland fungus.