I wrote an email to a lady to try and have a date

Hi, now you know my last name [from my email address]. (My sir name is Viscount Matthew von Idiotville the Seventh Esquire, is a thing I would say in person but not type, because homophones don’t work so well in text) Nor does Homo Phone, the dating app I programmed. The name is a play on the fact that we’re homo sapiens, but nobody seems to get it. There’s even homo habilis functionality where the app will respond if you bash your phone against a rock! But very low sales, and the reviews keep saying “delete and get Grindr.” I like to respond personally to these reviews, if for nothing else to correct the typo of Grinder, my other app that allows you to charge your phone by smashing your teeth together while you sleep. It’s tough to break into this whole app business.

That extended joke using homophone as a homonym brought to you by a childhood of sadness, probably

Do you like wheelchair breakdancing? There’s a semi-official music video for one of my favorite musicians, Aphex Twin, that consists of a hydrocephalic youngster with impossibly malleable bone and flesh structure wheelchair breakdancing and inhaling an enormous line of coke in a closet with a frightened chihuahua. I don’t condone 90+% of what’s going on in that video but I do listen to that sort of music completely sober, which is probably fair warning. (Another warning, this time the fairness of which is beyond dispute: I wouldn’t go poking around for that video at work)

Should we be humans? And get together for n drinks? What if you started a comedy club, but instead of “two drink minimum” you say “n drink minimum where n is prime.” And you can teach the servers to be like, “sir, you have had seven drinks, can i bring you four more?”

Whoa okay, hi. Drinks, yes? When are you free?




Initial Agenda If You Build Your Own Death Star

I was writing this to some chick on OkCupid who indicated that personal Death Stardom was one of her objectives.  By the time I sent it, she “had left the site,” which probably means she read my profile and hated me.  Here’s the stupid 5-minute one-off message she missed. Dating is still SUPER FUN in case you were wondering:

1) Destroy Pluto. I ain’t mad at Pluto, but the “Planet or Planetoid?” argument is over and done with. Blast it into Kuiper Belt smithereens.

2) Assuming you used/modified the original plans, you might wanna redesign the HVAC system so it doesn’t have air ducts big enough to fly a spaceship through.

3) No roombas. Droids hate roombas. Vacuum your Death Star the old-fashioned way, trust me.

4) Carve a picture of a penis into the Moon. Your Death Star has variable power, right? And penises are funny.

5) Don’t skimp on the alcohol at the yearly Death Star Christmas Party. This is just general advice for keeping morale high.

6) Point the giant communications dish toward the Telemundo satellite on April Fool’s Day.

In one of the pictures, the Falling Man’s shirt or white jacket was blown open and up, revealing an orange tee shirt


Just sitting here making ear cups for melodies

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.