In a city in a house on any typical Sycamore Street a man woke up. He tried to get out of bed, but curled around his pillows instead. Like a mother aware of the hazards, the bed’s warmth hugged him completely. He never wanted to get out of bed, especially this morning. Because …Today, he felt different? But, he had to, he had to get out of bed ---he was scared …
And then ---he jumped out of bed to see if it was something physical that made him feel …off. But he landed like a cat and stretched his legs. Everything physical seemed fine. He walked to the bathroom, to the shower and was startled when he turned the water on. To him, it was violent. This was different! He adjusted the temperature and jumped in. He was right ---it was violent! The water felt like needles pushed at a high velocity into every nerve on every square inch of his body.
It was horribly painful. He jumped away from the pain to somewhere dry and felt a viscous fluid dripping down his back. He pulled his arm back, and even with the viscous fluid diluted with water, when he looked at his hand, it still looked red ---Blood-red! He was bleeding. He bandaged it quickly, as dripping water mixed with blood plopped on his shower floor. He looked at himself in the mirror, and tried to dismiss all he saw and felt. He got dressed. The red spot, the blood, quickly swallowed the bandage and started to spread in a circle on his shirt …
He poured himself a cup of coffee, which smelled like ‘usual’, which looked like ‘usual’, but after a sip, he realized it had no taste. Nonetheless, he drank the entire cup. He enjoyed it, he told himself. He sat for half an hour staring at the angles connecting inside his pantry. Now it was gaining momentum: the difference! But: Was the change solely inside him, or was it from outside? To make some sense of this he started to walking …
At the edge of the man’s property another man lay dead. His eyes stared up at the morning sky. As you turned from the grisly scene and followed the dead man’s eyes, you could still see birds circling in the sky. His dog lay dead next to him. He walked closer to the death-scene at his property line. He had to make sure what he saw was really real.
Immediately he was spotted. The communication devices all linked up. Security was alerted ---and excited, “You!-Sir, you know, I know you know Sir, you must come with us!”
“I don’t understand.”
“You can’t be serious.” The interrogator stopped screaming and moved closer, “Are you?-Serious? You don't understand?”
“Sorry, of course I understand.”
“I don’t know how you got here. Unbelievable! How ---Did ---This ---Man get out here?” He looked around the circle at his accompanying platoon. They fidgeted and hid their eyes. He turned his attention back to the Man, “You know the procedure by now!-Come on! If I ever see you again I won’t hesitate. Do you UNDERSTAND me now?” His mouth was an inch away from his ear.
“Yes, of course, I just woke up.”
The interrogator takes several steps back, “Okay then: Wipe the sleep out of your eyes. This is really unbelievable! Could you please escort, private, escort this idiot out of here ---S.T.A.T.”
Five men came running at him, full speed. They stopped and formed a circle. Then, a smiling man came up to him with his hand out-stretched. Did he want to shake his hand? He kept walking with his hand, apparently, waiting for acceptance. He smiled so warmly. The Man felt better. The Smiling Man was close now and squatted as he got leverage to punch the Man in the stomach. He punched! Now ---in the gutter without any further to fall, the Man writhed in horrible pain. Finally ---A breath and another. He vomited, and then he coughed.
“Why?” he screamed, and the Smiling Man quickly answered, “How could you do it?!? Huh?!” The Smiling Man took several steps backwards and then ran at the Man and kicked him exactly where he just punched him. “Don’t tell me that you didn’t do it. Don’t!”
“Do what?"
The men lunged atop him, all five of them. They beat him within an inch of his life. “You did it, you did everything. I know you know!”
Now …Standing with a smoke in his mouth and his eyes blindfolded, the rifles were heard, “clicking” ---“If you just tell us, everything will be okay.” Was heard at the execution!
“I just woke up …I didn’t do anything,”
“We know,” was said. All the men at the FIRING SQUAD hit their target …
The End
Friday, January 28, 2011
Friday, January 21, 2011
Horny Nurses.com
Dying with a hard-on!
In over 160,000 cities, 160,000 thousand people flipped a switch, and red-lights soon dominated several thousand square street blocks. In fog-drenched alleyways red-lights flashed. One man, and then thousands more, marched as hidden as the night would allow to where the streets were bleeding red. In the high desert a tumble-weed rolled on and was forced to stop by some tall green grass. There, the sun was bright and a funeral was underway, the sun glistened off the people’s wet faces. Clear across town, at this hospital, a new-born screamed ---with ten toes and ten fingers …
At Saint Mercy General Hospital, on the edge of a city, when looking down you can see the red light district start to undulate and slowly engulf the horizon: The red mood, pushed with a strange north wind stroked ‘the grumpy old men section’, and a collective thought echoed: How valuable is a hard-on!
There was a lot of excitement, finally, and after a long extended period of time ---movement could be seen in their hospital gowns. It's not that labor intensive. But first, of course, the grumpy old men rolled their wheel-chairs into the cafeteria to conduct this discussion about erections or hard-ons face to face …
In ‘the grumpy old men section’ at Saint Mercy General, the conversation turned slightly philosophical ---concerning hard-ons.
Everything must be considered. “First on the agenda,” one of the men said, while adjusting his hospital gown, a ‘reference point’ is needed. He thought an agreeable definition of ‘value’ was needed to proceed. But this was quickly solved with, “the perfect fitting key,” the commenters first words, and then he said, “Whatever somebody will pay, barter, trade ---one good for another ---establishes …value,” spoken with his chest slightly puffed out until he coughed. But even with the man’s hand filled with mucus, it was a huge triumph. They were able to proceed onward. “Of course!” They all said.
The men hunkered down and pulled their wheelchairs in a tight circle. The discussion would move civilly, counter-clockwise, so that each man could tell his Value of a hard-on! The first man just said, “Prostate,” with a whimper, and encouraged the others to move forward without him. They all admired his bravery.
The next man stood-up and pulled the draw-strings off his hospital gown. He stood naked with a hard-on. The other men stood up, the ones who could, and applauded. No one could get within a foot of the naked man. His value of a hard-on was everything, “actually,” he said, “Everything! I lived off hard-on’s for decades. It was very lucrative. He looked down at his hard-on every other moment as he spoke, “I’ve had many hard-on’s, sometimes four or five a day.” And of course, he added, “I love a good hard-on! Don’t you?!”
The next man in the circle, traveling counter-clockwise, with his hard-on incrementally over-shadowed by the man to his right, asked the man, “Well …how many do you think you have left?”
“How many hard-ons do I left?”
“Yes …big guy ---hard-ons.”
Now, strangely humbly, while putting his hospital gown back on he said, “I just want one more!-I want a smoke. I thought my hard-on would be valuable enough to one of these horny nurses here to give me a smoke in bed.“
One of the men lamented about hard-ons and smoking in bed, “I’ve never had a smoke in bed.”
“Me either: I’m dying for a smoke too!” The big guy said, “I know how you look at me ---stop, even with thousands of hard-ons left ---you’re wrong.” The big guy had to collect himself, “Ya, you think, a foot away this guy could read some good literature while fornicating, but guys, even with thousands of hard-ons left, it doesn’t matter ---my hips are toast. Toast! I have to ice my hip at the thought of fornicating.”
“And ---with a hard-on like that,” could be heard as he pulled his wheelchair out of the circle. He pushed his wheelchair back to ‘the grumpy old men’ section, with movements at the moment, stifled, and quickly fell asleep. The others followed. Their conversations about hard-ons ended softly ---not with a bang, but maybe, with a lot of whimpers instead.
The big guy slept hard, but with his consistent movement, down there, ‘an early morning shift nurse' leaned against his doorway, and admired a hard-on.
Later:
back at the nurse’s station, she shared her vision with the other nurses: "If I could just slid on top of that thing it would solve a lot of problems for me ---that’s for sure!” Her friends giggled. “Don’t you just love a good hard-on?!?!”
Later: smoke billowed from the Big Guy’s hospital bed.
The End
In over 160,000 cities, 160,000 thousand people flipped a switch, and red-lights soon dominated several thousand square street blocks. In fog-drenched alleyways red-lights flashed. One man, and then thousands more, marched as hidden as the night would allow to where the streets were bleeding red. In the high desert a tumble-weed rolled on and was forced to stop by some tall green grass. There, the sun was bright and a funeral was underway, the sun glistened off the people’s wet faces. Clear across town, at this hospital, a new-born screamed ---with ten toes and ten fingers …
At Saint Mercy General Hospital, on the edge of a city, when looking down you can see the red light district start to undulate and slowly engulf the horizon: The red mood, pushed with a strange north wind stroked ‘the grumpy old men section’, and a collective thought echoed: How valuable is a hard-on!
There was a lot of excitement, finally, and after a long extended period of time ---movement could be seen in their hospital gowns. It's not that labor intensive. But first, of course, the grumpy old men rolled their wheel-chairs into the cafeteria to conduct this discussion about erections or hard-ons face to face …
In ‘the grumpy old men section’ at Saint Mercy General, the conversation turned slightly philosophical ---concerning hard-ons.
Everything must be considered. “First on the agenda,” one of the men said, while adjusting his hospital gown, a ‘reference point’ is needed. He thought an agreeable definition of ‘value’ was needed to proceed. But this was quickly solved with, “the perfect fitting key,” the commenters first words, and then he said, “Whatever somebody will pay, barter, trade ---one good for another ---establishes …value,” spoken with his chest slightly puffed out until he coughed. But even with the man’s hand filled with mucus, it was a huge triumph. They were able to proceed onward. “Of course!” They all said.
The men hunkered down and pulled their wheelchairs in a tight circle. The discussion would move civilly, counter-clockwise, so that each man could tell his Value of a hard-on! The first man just said, “Prostate,” with a whimper, and encouraged the others to move forward without him. They all admired his bravery.
The next man stood-up and pulled the draw-strings off his hospital gown. He stood naked with a hard-on. The other men stood up, the ones who could, and applauded. No one could get within a foot of the naked man. His value of a hard-on was everything, “actually,” he said, “Everything! I lived off hard-on’s for decades. It was very lucrative. He looked down at his hard-on every other moment as he spoke, “I’ve had many hard-on’s, sometimes four or five a day.” And of course, he added, “I love a good hard-on! Don’t you?!”
The next man in the circle, traveling counter-clockwise, with his hard-on incrementally over-shadowed by the man to his right, asked the man, “Well …how many do you think you have left?”
“How many hard-ons do I left?”
“Yes …big guy ---hard-ons.”
Now, strangely humbly, while putting his hospital gown back on he said, “I just want one more!-I want a smoke. I thought my hard-on would be valuable enough to one of these horny nurses here to give me a smoke in bed.“
One of the men lamented about hard-ons and smoking in bed, “I’ve never had a smoke in bed.”
“Me either: I’m dying for a smoke too!” The big guy said, “I know how you look at me ---stop, even with thousands of hard-ons left ---you’re wrong.” The big guy had to collect himself, “Ya, you think, a foot away this guy could read some good literature while fornicating, but guys, even with thousands of hard-ons left, it doesn’t matter ---my hips are toast. Toast! I have to ice my hip at the thought of fornicating.”
“And ---with a hard-on like that,” could be heard as he pulled his wheelchair out of the circle. He pushed his wheelchair back to ‘the grumpy old men’ section, with movements at the moment, stifled, and quickly fell asleep. The others followed. Their conversations about hard-ons ended softly ---not with a bang, but maybe, with a lot of whimpers instead.
The big guy slept hard, but with his consistent movement, down there, ‘an early morning shift nurse' leaned against his doorway, and admired a hard-on.
Later:
back at the nurse’s station, she shared her vision with the other nurses: "If I could just slid on top of that thing it would solve a lot of problems for me ---that’s for sure!” Her friends giggled. “Don’t you just love a good hard-on?!?!”
Later: smoke billowed from the Big Guy’s hospital bed.
The End
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Ideas wthout Contradictions
… “It’s always something,” our man screamed. In absolute obvious agony he grabbed his lap-top and held it high, begged for the explosion of computer diodes on his floor boards, but instead, thought about all those years of extensive thought that he had complied in his computer and gently laid his lap-top back down.
Instead, he peeled his clenched fists apart to attack the last remaining tuffs of hair on his over-intellectualized skull. After just a moment, just a moment, the last tuffs of hair surrounding his temples were now in his hand. He looked down, saw the hair, and screamed, “So now, I’ll work without hair!”
With his studies, it was just that ---always ---something ---stopping ---him! Sometimes it took him weeks to recover after these outbursts. He’d stare up at the ceiling and connect the cracks ---for days …hell, for weeks!-Years! But, his situation was quite unique. He was studying Ideas without Contradictions. It was the perfect field of intellectualism for our man. His fear of success made all his decisions, and all because of that one day when a book was placed in his hands?!
So …let’s move this story back, back to when our man was at the tender age of three, but with a string-line pulled tight, directly to the moment when the idea of ridiculous ambitions came to fruition, when his parents placed a book in his hands: A math book!
With furrowed brows the placement of the book came into his boyish hands, and, well, probably because of the many attachments that came with it, all their ideas plus many others, but solely based on one idea in particular, which was based on another larger idea, and then on another, but this time, monumental idea ---an idea to achieve the all elusive …Glory! And of course, this would be attempted even if one’s health were jeopardized. To find something that wasn’t kicking one’s own ass, something without contractions would be sought ---at all costs!
They waited like cats over weakening prey, and when the time was just ripe, they pounced. They forced their ambitions on their little boy, when his so-called fighting weight was at a slightly emaciated ---thirty pounds. They, mercilessly of course, handed our man, sixty years earlier, a math book, and thus began his rapid descent to absolute failure, sadness ridiculousness, and or, to dedicate his life to, Ideas without Contradictions.
With the simple passing of a book, this math book, from his parents to him, it was all over before it began. The math-chant was now the language spoken at the home with ridiculous ideas. It echoed throughout his childhood home for almost two decades, from boy to man. The math-chant went exactly like this ---1 plus 1 equals 2, and then, add a %, or a +, and maybe this =, and < >, and greater or lesser signs with stuff squared inside, and re-squared.
This chant, the math-chant, continued throughout breakfast lunch and dinner ---without a break. They were relentless. But one plus one does equal two, always, where we are, they would say, and he’d have to agree, every time! He was going mad!!-And at the tender age of five. Quickly he developed an interior monologue that’d step outside every once in a while and people stopped and pointed. Parent and teacher meetings were taken to medieval levels. It was difficult, but he made it, at least as far as his high school graduation ---sane!
At his high school graduation, being the valectorian, he gave the speech at the end of the ceremony, exactly about his field of expertise ---Ideas without contradictions. The Speech, known as the Speech with Many Problems:
Are you people frigging kidding me? Huh? If I am the future then who the frig are you? Nothing, huh? The future is an illusion, if we look ahead we’re actually occupied with thoughts now, and thus we live in the present, but quickly that becomes the past ---Right?????
The End
Instead, he peeled his clenched fists apart to attack the last remaining tuffs of hair on his over-intellectualized skull. After just a moment, just a moment, the last tuffs of hair surrounding his temples were now in his hand. He looked down, saw the hair, and screamed, “So now, I’ll work without hair!”
With his studies, it was just that ---always ---something ---stopping ---him! Sometimes it took him weeks to recover after these outbursts. He’d stare up at the ceiling and connect the cracks ---for days …hell, for weeks!-Years! But, his situation was quite unique. He was studying Ideas without Contradictions. It was the perfect field of intellectualism for our man. His fear of success made all his decisions, and all because of that one day when a book was placed in his hands?!
So …let’s move this story back, back to when our man was at the tender age of three, but with a string-line pulled tight, directly to the moment when the idea of ridiculous ambitions came to fruition, when his parents placed a book in his hands: A math book!
With furrowed brows the placement of the book came into his boyish hands, and, well, probably because of the many attachments that came with it, all their ideas plus many others, but solely based on one idea in particular, which was based on another larger idea, and then on another, but this time, monumental idea ---an idea to achieve the all elusive …Glory! And of course, this would be attempted even if one’s health were jeopardized. To find something that wasn’t kicking one’s own ass, something without contractions would be sought ---at all costs!
They waited like cats over weakening prey, and when the time was just ripe, they pounced. They forced their ambitions on their little boy, when his so-called fighting weight was at a slightly emaciated ---thirty pounds. They, mercilessly of course, handed our man, sixty years earlier, a math book, and thus began his rapid descent to absolute failure, sadness ridiculousness, and or, to dedicate his life to, Ideas without Contradictions.
With the simple passing of a book, this math book, from his parents to him, it was all over before it began. The math-chant was now the language spoken at the home with ridiculous ideas. It echoed throughout his childhood home for almost two decades, from boy to man. The math-chant went exactly like this ---1 plus 1 equals 2, and then, add a %, or a +, and maybe this =, and < >, and greater or lesser signs with stuff squared inside, and re-squared.
This chant, the math-chant, continued throughout breakfast lunch and dinner ---without a break. They were relentless. But one plus one does equal two, always, where we are, they would say, and he’d have to agree, every time! He was going mad!!-And at the tender age of five. Quickly he developed an interior monologue that’d step outside every once in a while and people stopped and pointed. Parent and teacher meetings were taken to medieval levels. It was difficult, but he made it, at least as far as his high school graduation ---sane!
At his high school graduation, being the valectorian, he gave the speech at the end of the ceremony, exactly about his field of expertise ---Ideas without contradictions. The Speech, known as the Speech with Many Problems:
Are you people frigging kidding me? Huh? If I am the future then who the frig are you? Nothing, huh? The future is an illusion, if we look ahead we’re actually occupied with thoughts now, and thus we live in the present, but quickly that becomes the past ---Right?????
The End
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