My own answer is:
However, Zach L. suggested an even shorter solution:
Hope you enjoyed the doublet.
Monday, March 29, 2010
My own answer is:
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Do you ever suffer fools who are dimwitted?
Can you turn dim into wit? Answer provided tomorrow. See if you can solve it before then.
Friday, March 26, 2010
The churchyard was quiet but for the grunts and uneven steps of the undead. Father Paul barricaded the church doors and hoped his small cloister held enough wafers and holy water to last him through Armageddon. That’s when he heard the moans of the resurrected Silent Sisters stalking down the pews towards him. He made the sign of the cross and gave into what, he believed, was God’s will.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
- To worry excessively about something that is not logically possible. Example: Thomas is absolutely terrified that square circles are conspiring against us. He's gone so far as to write a letter to the board of education requesting geometry no longer be taught in the schools.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
When life ends, we rest in peace.
Friday, March 19, 2010
The Wikipedia article was titled The Day The World Ends. James only read it once. His first reaction was to laugh at it. He linked it to several others, but they all said the page could not be found. Goosebumps formed all over him. His breathing, agitated.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
1. A mental disorder where one is in love with, or primarily attracted to, fictional female persons. The most famous case of the disorder was Walter K. Philmore. He self-diagnoised himself with the disorder and purchased a large library of works that featured wonderful female characters. He thought he was condemned to a lonely life of reading, until he began receiving teasing (and later erotic) short fiction in the mail that featured himself involved with a woman named Elizabeth Talbet. Eventually they would marry (first in a short story, and later in actuality). Their relationship was primarily through fiction (this survives today as the collected works of Elizabeth Talbet). It is unclear how much physical interaction the couple had, but the literature - at least - suggests they were close and deeply in love.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
The belt is a snug fit around Adam’s chubby waist. Like many of his fourth grade peers, he is overweight. They are too young to have fat eating nanos implanted. The belt, his parents hope, will help him become more active. It won’t do much for his body, but maybe it will change him. The belt is an entwinement of black metal, a bright gold buckle, and organic components that get used in the searching. Adam is a cautious boy and makes sure to feed them as soon as he takes it out of the box. Just like the commercial said too.
Skeptics still claim the belt proves nothing. “A toy you buy at an electronics store is hardly a justification to believe in the soul,” Rex Edwards, Professor of Cognitive Science at M.I.T. said in answer to the belt. His opinion on this year’s hottest Christmas item was of particular relevance because two years previous he had listed the criteria that would have to be met for him to believe in the human soul. Without reprinting the article here, the belt met six out of eight of his qualifications.
The organic components (the box calls them Valiads) [Edwards calls them Strange New Sea Monkeys] begin to glow an hour and thirteen minutes after Adam has fed them. He waited patiently that entire time with the belt around his waist as he ate Christmas breakfast with his family. As the belt began to glow he excused himself from the table. “What will you become first, Adam?” His father says. Adam has thought about this since the day two weeks ago that he crept into his parents room and snuck a look at his presents.
“The angel statue in the backyard.” Adam says. His mother says she’ll be out there in a few minutes to take some pictures.
Adam runs outside into the snow with only his winter boots, pajamas, and the belt. The angel statue stands three feet taller than him, and it poses with its arms outstretched as though it were embracing the world. Adam brushes the snow off of it as best he can, but more keeps falling.
The belt hums after Adam turns it on. He points the large glowing buckle at the center of the statue, and light shoots from the belt. Archones, the company that produces the belt, makes no claims that this light is the soul, but so many claim otherwise. Why else would it allow a person to transfer their consciousness into another object? Mary Ellen, the eventual author of the future best selling A Glimpse Of God, will later claim that during this brief moment as the light shoots out of the body those looking into it can see into eternity and look God in the eyes. Others will say they see all of Creation through the light.
Adam imagines what it will be like to walk around in the body of the angelic statue. Will it be heavy? He imagines so, and wonders if he’ll even be able to flap the stone wings.
Those who have experienced the searching claim there is no current emotion that we could attach to the experience of being light.
The searching takes less than three seconds.
And then he is in his new body.
He is falling. His new body tells him he has been falling since his birth. This is his purpose. The body is cold but unique. Four days from now a recall order will be sent out across the country. It will claim that anything bigger than a spec of dust is capable of accepting consciousness from the belt. An apology from the President of Archones will state that all previous tests had been done in sterile laboratories, so this had never been an issue before.
As Adam lands on the ground next to all of his icy brothers and sisters he wonders “How many more children will turn into snowflakes this day?” He does not ponder the question long. His mother comes out in a hurry. She steps on Adam as she begins to take pictures of his former body and the statue that embraces the world.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Prayer is a plea for God's direct intervention in the world.
God exists outside of time.
If God answers prayers and exists outside of time, then one ought to be able to state a prayer in the future and have it change the past because, to God, our human perception of time is unnecessary or illusional.
However, this would cause something akin to the predestination paradox: The causal events that lead one to ask for the prayer would no longer occur, therefore one would no longer ask for the prayer, therefore God would no longer answer the prayer.
However, this limits God's ability to intervene in the world in a meaningful way.
If God cannot effect the world in a meaningful way, then he is not God.
God cannot effect the world in a meaningful way.
Conclusion: There is no God.
Friday, March 12, 2010
The audience laughed when the magician did not bring the child back from the Magic Box. “He’s lost,” the magician said. “Into the abyss.” Laughter. The magician, his face drained of blood, stepped into the box. His last words: “I’ll try and bring him back.” The audience sat in silence for two hours. They left when the police came. The child’s mother cried as the theatre manager told her it was time to leave.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
1. A special version of billiards that is universally played by the mentally ill. It is first mentioned (by this name - it's suggested it has gone by many others) in a letter by an English bartender in 1834. He complains of two mentally ill men who came into his tavern and played two full games of billiards without once utilizing the balls or cues (he thus dubbed their game 'fooliards' and this label has stuck). They seemingly pantomimed the games, only using the "real" table. When other patrons wished to play an actual game of billiards they became hostile. This phenomenon has occurred across the world on many occasions when the mentally ill have wandered into taverns. Carl Jung has a short book on the subject entitled Archetypical Games, Rules, and Delusions (1913, Pub: Random House).
2. When one is "winding-up" his mates, he is said to be playing a game of fooliards with them. Example: "You're a liar, Harry. I know James ain't gone to India. That's nuts. You're playing a game of folliards with me, are ya?"
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
lies ties tics tacs tact fact
Monday, March 8, 2010
Now that I've explained what a doublet is, and demonstrated a few myself, I'll now ask you to answer them. I'll give a post like this where I'll give two words and then the next day I'll post an answer.
Can you turn lies into fact?
So Gary’s getting fucked up tonight and I mean that in the worst way possible. Cindy left him again. This time he says for some asshat accountant, and Gary is drinking enough to give an elephant’s liver trouble. “Tim,” he tells me, “You know what your fucking problem is?”
I bite. “No Gary, What is my problem?”
“You bitch and you whine about all these women you meet and criticize them for tiny shit that only you care about.” He stops and takes a shot of Daniels. I don’t know if he’ll continue on this path or jump back to Cindy and the asshat accountant. “Like that girl Amber,” he says, “So she had sex with a dog once for money.” The bartender walks to the other end of the bar. “Hell, I’d have sex with a dog - an ugly one too - if you paid me enough.”
“That’s great, Gary.” I say. “You want me to give Amber a call? Maybe I could hook you up with her and a goddamn schnauzer.”
“Schnauzer’s are fucking ugly.” He says. We order another round. Forty minutes later Gary is opening his jean jacket and showing me his pistol. It’s a little 9mm that’s black with a beat up barrel. I thank God he’s not drunk enough to take the thing out and throw it on the bar for everyone to see. “Bought it for protection and shit,” He says. He giggles after he says and shit like it’s a secret code, and it kinda is, ’cause I know exactly what he means.
“Don’t go fucking kill Cindy and that asshat accountant.” I say. “You’ll just go to prison.” Gary pulls his jean jacket shut and tries to button it. He looks at me like I’m that guy who backstabbed Caesar.
“You gonna go tell the cops?” He says. He has three of the buttons done, but two of them are in the wrong holes.
“No” I tell him. “But you’re too fucked up to drive. Let me do that.” He eyes me with what might be suspicion or maybe he’s so drunk he’s already forgotten what I’ve said and doesn’t want me to realize it. Either way, he agrees. My plan is to drive around till he passes out.
It’s a long walk to Gary’s car. We couldn’t park anywhere near the bars since it’s a Friday, and the place was crowded before we arrived. We walk through a few dark alleys. There's a faint thumping sound off ahead. I hardly notice it at first. We parked at Holy Trinity Church. The cathedral stands over us, and I look up at the tower with the stained glass pictures of the Saints. I don’t know which ones they are. The moonlight shines in the glass, and they glow like magic is flowing through them. It creeps me out. There aren’t many other cars in the church lot. It’s why we park here on Friday nights.
We get closer to the car and a beating sound is all around us. “Thump… Thump Thump.” It goes on. I‘ve got whiskey vision, and I imagine Gary does too. We just keep walking towards his car and pretend the sound is normal. I look up at the Saints. Their moonlight magic remains stuck in the glass.
I’m not sure how far away from his car we are when we realize the sound is some bum whacking at Gary's Buick with half a brick. Gary runs at the guy yelling. I follow. “What the fuck you doing?” Gary says. The bum keeps up his rhythm. He’s dressed in a camo jacket and sick baggy jeans the color of dried mud. He smells like pus. Gary grabs his shoulder and spins him around. The guy looks past us. “You trying to steal my car, you homeless fuck?” Gary says. The driver’s side door of Gary’s old Buick is beat to shit. Gary takes a moment to survey the damage too. Inside in the passenger’s seat I see a bag of weed. The bum turns his head back towards the bag. Before I can stop him, Gary pulls the 9mm out and holds it at the back of the bum‘s head. “Fuck you and fuck Cindy.” He says. The hood of the car gets the worst of it. I look up to the Saints. The moonlight is hidden behind black clouds.
The dead man rides in the back seat because Gary refuses to take his golf clubs out of the trunk. I can see the bum’s chest and hands in the rearview mirror. Outside the car Gary is cleaning up the last of the blood with little towels and dirty napkins he had laying on the floor of the Buick. I can't see the Saints in the stained glass. The tower's peak dissipates into the night sky. I feel something watching me in the dark over the cathedral. “What if someone saw that?” I say.
“No one saw shit.” Gary says.
I wonder if I’m an accessory to the murder. I didn’t try to stop him and Gary would lie his ass off to the police. Maybe even tell them I did it. I got a DUI already. The first thing out of Gary’s mouth after he shot the guy was, “We’re taking him to the river. No one will find this fucker in the Mississippi.”
Gary climbs into the passenger seat. He looks back at the dead man and smiles at me like he’s a little boy who's shot his first deer. “Goddamn, if I didn’t show him.” Gary says. I see my face in the rearview mirror. I look like I’m going to vomit, cry, or both. “Don’t pussy out on me.” Gary says. “You gotta drive this goddamn car.” I lean back in the seat, and take a few long breaths that reach down to my belly. After a few moments, I nod to Gary and start the car. That’s when it happens.
“That you?” I say to Gary.
“Not me.” Gary says. I wonder if it’s me and I’m just too dumbstruck to realize it. But I know it’s not. I know what it is, and I don’t want to say it.
“You ever heard of a dead man getting a case of the hiccups before?” Gary says. I tell him no. “Well, fuck. We outta call Guinness Book of World Records. This is probably a goddamn first.” In the rearview mirror I look at the bum in the backseat.
His body tremors as it comes out of him. It isn’t natural. I wonder if the Saints told God and now he’s punishing us for killing this man in God’s own parking lot. I share this with Gary. “That’s fucked up. God doesn’t have time for this shit.” Gary says. I wonder if it’s the devil then. Or the bum’s ghost. Gary tells me I sound like a Scooby Doo episode. We stop talking for awhile, and I keep driving.
I drive through as many red lights as possible. It feels like something is following us, but I can’t tell what. No cars have been behind us for too long, but I‘ve still felt something behind us since we left the cathedral‘s parking lot. Gary’s radio was stolen a few weeks ago, so it's a quiet trip. On top of that his headlights burned out and he never replaced them. Tonight’s a drive through paradise, that’s for sure.
Every time it happens I imagine it’s sending out a signal to whatever is following us. I’m not being paranoid. I can feel something behind us. The hiccups are leading it. I say this to Gary. “No…” he says. “That isn’t how it works.” But his voice sounds uncertain.
We’re ten miles from the bridge. The lack of headlights is starting to affect us. We’re out of the city, and the roadside lights are almost nonexistent in this area. The hiccups are coming six or seven times a minute. After each one I feel that thing following us getting closer. It’s like Marco Polo. We’re treading water in the deep end and eventually it will find us and pull us under till we drown.
The bridge has roadside lights at both ends. The middle is dark. The Mississippi has a low mist gliding over it tonight. My hands are shaking as I park the car at the side of the bridge entrance. “I’ll get the rocks to put in his pockets. You just try to stay cool.” Gary says. After awhile I get out of the car.
“Sorry Mr. Bum,” I say. “Please know that. And please tell whatever it is you’re sending signals to not to kill us.”
Gary’s got a handful of rocks and is yelling at me to open the backseat door. I open the backdoor for him and he puts the rocks in the bum's pockets. We each take an end of him and carry him to the center of the bridge. My whole body tremors as he hiccups. We toss him over. It was that simple. There is a splash and we wait over a minute, but we hear no more hiccups. I gaze at the water of the Mississippi as it continually washes downstream. It is not the same river from moment to moment. It's always changing. I tell this to Gary.
"That's stupid." He says. "Of course it's the same river."
"No it isn't." I say. "Not after its had a corpse thrown into it." The lights at both ends of the bridge flashed then extinguished. The darkness was all around us then.
Friday, March 5, 2010
“You smell like birthday candles,” the clown said. “May I blow you out?” He giggled. One of the children cried. Another wet himself. Their mother had hired the clown. He stabbed her first.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
-adverb [root: Crumdigin - noun]
1. To act like a Crumdigin.
2. A derogatory phrase that denotes one is acting especially ass like. It makes reference to the racial/socio-economic group the Crumdigins that at one time were well known for storming into bars after many days without bathing - not to drink - but to proselytize their own interpretations of the religion Christianity. This involved performing convoluted passion plays that made little reference to the Gospels, and often ended in at least one of the Crumdigins shitting on a table [this seems to be based on a misinterpretation they've made of the Gospels]. They were/are less liked than gypsies and often thrown out of towns they attempt to settle in. The first sign that Crumdigins have moved to one's town will be yellow stoplights painted black. They have a supernatural fear of the color yellow. Especially when combined with electricity. It is uncertain whether any groups of Crumdigins exist in modern day.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
in memory of Edward Gorey (sorry I can't draw).
Arnold's last words were: Anti-freeze is syrupy and sweet.
Beatrice's last words were: Bees! Bees! Bees!
Clay's last words were: Cold... but they'll find me.
Drake's last words were: Don't pull that lever.
Eileen's last words were: Easy. This was too easy.
Fredericka's last words were: Fingers!? Where are my fingers?
George's last words were: God, oh God.
Hildy's last words were: How did the duck pull the trigger?
Ingrid's last words were: I am not loved.
John's last words were: Joking... please, please I swear I was only joking.
Kendrick's last words were: Killed on my birthday; just my luck
Liam's last words were: Let me lick that.
Mona's last words were: My head hurts.
Nathaniel's last words were: Nobody knew me.
Oswald's last words were: One last drink won't kill me.
Philip's last words were: Perhaps I am too reckless.
Quentin's last words were: Quiet at last.
Rosalind's last words were: Roses are red and now I am dead.
Sylvia's last words were: Such a wasted life.
Trent's last words were: That was unexpected.
Umberto's last words were: Under here the seeker shall never find me hiding.
Vincent's last words were: Very funny.
Winifred's last words were: Why didn't I ever travel?
Xandra's last words were: X-rays probably shouldn't be this painful.
Yvonne's last words were: You don't have the guts!
Zachariah's last words were: Zoos usually have the animals locked in, don't they?
The answer to yesterday's doublet challenge of turning stop into poor is:
Did you come up with a different solution?
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
As requested by a friend, here is how to turn shit into gold.
I will be engaged on a military vessel for sometime. I have updates scheduled for a few times a week over the next few months though so this blog will continue in my absence. I apologize that I won't be able to reply to comments though (at least on a regular basis).
Posted by Jack at 6:07 AM
From now on with doublets I'm going to challenge you to think of solutions to problems I propose.
Here is the first:
It'd be nice to stop people from being poor.
Answer posted tomorrow.
The child ran from his mother down a dark corridor of the mall he’d never seen. The store names were strange to him: Blankets Stolen From Infants, Coffin Nails Of Evil Men and Ambitions Ripped From Talented Youth. The child asked the janitor who smelled of sour milk for help. The janitor smiled, placed a hand on the child’s back, and led him into a store called Lost Boys Never To Be Seen Again.
Monday, March 1, 2010
I have succeeded where alchemists have failed for centuries.
When I was six years old my grandmother told me I’d die the same way my father did. She never told me how he died. I only bring this up because yesterday I was shot.
My name is Frank and I stood in line at the First National when a man came in with a gun and ordered all the customers to the ground. He got his money and as he left he twirled his pistol, hit the trigger, and a bullet went through my upper right arm. It stung. He ran, and the ambulance came for me.
I was released from the hospital today. The first thing I did was go to a hot dog stand. There was no real damage, the doctor said. I work at a foghorn testing facility. The guys there started calling me the bullet dodger. I corrected them and said I hadn’t dodged the bullet. It hit me, and I bled until the ambulance came. After that no one talked to me or made eye contact with me for the rest of the day. This happens sometimes.
After work I got on a bus and everyone on it had burned skin and they were dead. Most of the bodies were charred black. You could rip off one of their fingers and use it to draw on the sidewalk. I didn’t do this though. An officer came on the bus and said I needed to get off. He explained that there was a fire in the movie theater next door and a lot of folks died. Since they all died sitting up, it was easier to get them to the morgue in the bus. He swore to me they’d clean the bus when this was all over. I agreed it would be for the best. The officer gave me a ride home. He carried a handgun in his belt holster. Most cops do. I told him if he shot at me I could dodge the bullet. The fellas at work call me the bullet dodger, I said. He wouldn’t shoot me.
Today Sarah, my neighbor, asked me to babysit her eight year old son, Dennis. We ate ice cream, watched The Lion King, and I told Dennis about how I got shot, and then how the cop wouldn’t shoot me. He said his mom kept a gun in their house and said he’d shoot me if I wanted him to. I declined, but it was nice of him to offer.
My grandmother also told me my voice was like Buster Keaton’s face: deadpan. She’d taunt me by saying this. I’d run from her through the kitchen and dinning room and upstairs to my room, but she’d follow me and not stop taunting me. Quit it, I’d say, and then she’d say, if you want me to just scream or cry or raise your voice, and I couldn’t.
A guy at work told me I could look up my father’s obituary in the library. They stored everyone’s death, he said. I asked him why. He laughed and said, People come back from the dead and you can’t kill them the same way twice, so we need to keep records to know how everyone dies so we can stab people who were shot and poison people who were stabbed. I think he was lying to me, but it still made sense.
My father was shot to death. Most people only get shot once in a lifetime, unless they’re a solider. I’m immortal now.
Sarah had me babysit Dennis again, and this time I took him up on his offer to shoot me. Sarah came back though because she forgot her purse and caught us before Dennis fired the gun. First she thought her son was holding me hostage, but then I explained things to her. She called the police. They came and took me to an institution where they’re doing tests on me. The doctor who’s assigned to me said I can’t be immortal, but I told him if I wasn’t, then fate wouldn’t have stepped in by bringing Sarah back and stopping Dennis from shooting me. He said I was just lucky.
Tonight my father’s dead body visited me in the hospital. He had decomposed but his mind still worked fine. He brought a baseball and new gloves. Fathers and sons play catch, he said. I agreed, so we did in my room. While we did this we talked about his death and my immortality. He was proud of my immortality like I earned it in college. I asked him what happens when people die, and he said most people become mannequins in department stores. I don’t think he knew this, but when I was younger and grandma took me to these stores I’d dress up in new clothes, run from her, and pretend I was a mannequin. These were some of my favorite memories as a child. I told my father this. He said he’d see what he could do.
My father didn’t come back until tonight. He came with great news though. The man in charge of death said I could be a mannequin at Fuller’s Department Store. My father came to the hospital in an old station wagon and picked me up. On the car ride we talked about the time we played catch with each other. He dropped me off at the front door of Fuller’s. He said he couldn’t come in because it wasn’t his kind of death. He wished me luck though and said he loved me. I said this back to him. When I walked into Fuller’s my body turned into plastic and an obese woman in a green dress carried me to the back of the store. She put a white dress shirt on me, and khaki pants. She then tied a black silk tie around my neck with a Windsor knot. I told another mannequin about my life. He hated it. “Your story means life is meaningless.” He said. I told him my life wasn’t a story. We were quiet for a very long time after that.