On a still, cold night
When the moon is full,
The light it puts on everything...
The first thing I noticed,
The fallen leaves.
They look like bright paint spatters.
Some heavenly disaster.
Some remodeling up there,
That took a spill.
It's a beautiful accident.
It's like...
They're gray. The spatters.
The fallen leaves.
They're gray,
And I don't know how they do it...
But they contain colors.
They keep them all,
And they don't let them go,
But they're aware.
And just prideful enough to let you know
That they're there.
The beauty underneath
Must be more than I could stand.
Sunday, May 31, 2020
Grand Central Station
BRRRRRIIIIINGALINNNG
Hello, Grand Central Station...
Oh, hey, sup y'all. Huh? Me? Oh nuthin'. Just out haunting the neighborhood, up to no good. Drunk and high on amphetamines, hanging around between parked cars, with my head full of stars.
Oh, sorry... Huh?
Yeesh! That sounds exactly like the pedicure from hell, straight out of the lawyer book. Hell yeah, file a claim! That's an act of God. It's legal! Bad pedicures are always Acts Of God. Look it up in the lawyer book!
What? Say again? You woke up and your toenails were on fire? Oh. You just shake that off, that's called wake&bake&shake. Huh? Oh, what? They're literally on fire, with flames and smoke? Oh! Dang. Sorry bout that.
:::click::::
BRRRRRIIIIINGALINNNG!
Hello, Grand Central Station Drug Emporium, can I help you? Huh? Oh, I see. Cold or clammy? Both? Which hand? Both hands? Ok, hold please...
BRRRRRIIIIINGALINNNG!
Grand Central Station Drug Emporium Smack-O-Matic, what's your emergency? Huh? Oh. Oh, I see. Are you sure? Ok then... firstly, and according to the instructions here... hang on. Ok. Firstly, did you do the tail flick test? No? Oh... yeah. No, yeah. You need to do that for the death certificate. Red tape... anyway.
:::click:::
BRRRRRIIIIINGALINNNG
Hello, Grand Central Station Boulevard... Oh! You still there? Great! What you need are 10,000 mg of Imodium. Do you have it? I mean them? Whatever... Oh... huh? What? Oh, you have it? REALLY? NO SHIT? Great! Now just administer it... carefully... watch for it... into the subdural vein of the transvertical hematoma, of the corresponding brain partholomew... watch for the weak ipsilaterral component... got it? Great!
Now. What I need you to do is to STAB the rat, carefully, right up it's butthole. Yes. Up the butthole. What? Oh, whatever... FINE! The anus. Can we continue? Thank you!
Carefully STAB the rat, right up it's ass, with a carefully contrived stabbing tool... why you little... hey, let go of that! SECURITY!!
:::click:::
BRRRRRIIIIINGALINNNG
Hello, Grand Central Station Mind Fuck Delivery Service and Quantum Algebra, please hold...
::: seventy two gazillion years later:::
BRRRRRIIIIINGALINNNG
Hello, Grand Central Station Mind Fuck Delivery Service and Quantum Algebra II, please hold...
Hello, Grand Central Station...
Oh, hey, sup y'all. Huh? Me? Oh nuthin'. Just out haunting the neighborhood, up to no good. Drunk and high on amphetamines, hanging around between parked cars, with my head full of stars.
Oh, sorry... Huh?
Yeesh! That sounds exactly like the pedicure from hell, straight out of the lawyer book. Hell yeah, file a claim! That's an act of God. It's legal! Bad pedicures are always Acts Of God. Look it up in the lawyer book!
What? Say again? You woke up and your toenails were on fire? Oh. You just shake that off, that's called wake&bake&shake. Huh? Oh, what? They're literally on fire, with flames and smoke? Oh! Dang. Sorry bout that.
:::click::::
BRRRRRIIIIINGALINNNG!
Hello, Grand Central Station Drug Emporium, can I help you? Huh? Oh, I see. Cold or clammy? Both? Which hand? Both hands? Ok, hold please...
BRRRRRIIIIINGALINNNG!
Grand Central Station Drug Emporium Smack-O-Matic, what's your emergency? Huh? Oh. Oh, I see. Are you sure? Ok then... firstly, and according to the instructions here... hang on. Ok. Firstly, did you do the tail flick test? No? Oh... yeah. No, yeah. You need to do that for the death certificate. Red tape... anyway.
:::click:::
BRRRRRIIIIINGALINNNG
Hello, Grand Central Station Boulevard... Oh! You still there? Great! What you need are 10,000 mg of Imodium. Do you have it? I mean them? Whatever... Oh... huh? What? Oh, you have it? REALLY? NO SHIT? Great! Now just administer it... carefully... watch for it... into the subdural vein of the transvertical hematoma, of the corresponding brain partholomew... watch for the weak ipsilaterral component... got it? Great!
Now. What I need you to do is to STAB the rat, carefully, right up it's butthole. Yes. Up the butthole. What? Oh, whatever... FINE! The anus. Can we continue? Thank you!
Carefully STAB the rat, right up it's ass, with a carefully contrived stabbing tool... why you little... hey, let go of that! SECURITY!!
:::click:::
BRRRRRIIIIINGALINNNG
Hello, Grand Central Station Mind Fuck Delivery Service and Quantum Algebra, please hold...
::: seventy two gazillion years later:::
BRRRRRIIIIINGALINNNG
Hello, Grand Central Station Mind Fuck Delivery Service and Quantum Algebra II, please hold...
Planet Dirt
You know what? 'Planet Earth' - that most majesterial sounding title that we proudly give to and proclaim as to be our homeworld - to some alien would translate literally to 'Planet Dirt'.
'Where do you come from?' those aliens would ask.
'What do you call your homeworld?' they'd say.
'You call it Earth? What does it mean, this word, Earth? Please, enlighten us with your rich cultural history! We are extremely advanced aliens, and we respect all humble origins! What? Huh? Say again? No. Really? You're joking!
We, as advanced and enlightened aliens, of course, appreciate humor... huh? You're not joking? Wait, just hold on.
Earth means... that is, translated literally, it means... dirt? Like, the stuff that makes you dirty? The stuff that retarded kids eat, and that Enlightened Beings continually strive to remain cleansed of and from? That's the name of your world? Planet Dirt?'
Uncomfortable silence.
'Ta ta, dirtlings!'
Aaaaand... they've shunted into hyperspace.
'Where do you come from?' those aliens would ask.
'What do you call your homeworld?' they'd say.
'You call it Earth? What does it mean, this word, Earth? Please, enlighten us with your rich cultural history! We are extremely advanced aliens, and we respect all humble origins! What? Huh? Say again? No. Really? You're joking!
We, as advanced and enlightened aliens, of course, appreciate humor... huh? You're not joking? Wait, just hold on.
Earth means... that is, translated literally, it means... dirt? Like, the stuff that makes you dirty? The stuff that retarded kids eat, and that Enlightened Beings continually strive to remain cleansed of and from? That's the name of your world? Planet Dirt?'
Uncomfortable silence.
'Ta ta, dirtlings!'
Aaaaand... they've shunted into hyperspace.
Clean Off Your Desk!
I have a serious problem, as should any reasonable, thinking being, with this particular command:
Clean off your desk!
You know, it really should be clean ON your desk instead of clean OFF your desk, since the word 'OFF' kinda means 'away from', suggesting to the irrational mind that cleaning should occur away from your desk. I know exactly what you're thinking, so please bear with me, because my point is vitally important.
For instance... say you were obligated to give a retarded kid a piggyback ride, because of for whatever or something. You'd use this sentence structure to communicate with the retard:
verb, preposition, pronoun, noun
It's the exact same sentence structure used in the original statement under critical examination here:
Clean off your desk
But in this case, it would be:
Climb on my back
Now, since retards are mentally skittish to begin with and easily confused and are all lacking any real understanding regarding the nuance of natural language, it's critical that you should convey your meaning to one as simply and literally as possible, so as to avoid eliciting a short circuit - or a brain burn, as it's referred to clinically - inside the thick, insulated skull casings which house the coagulated brain mush which clumsily controls the primary retarded functioning of the retard, such as inhaling, excreting, swallowing, screaming incoherently, drooling, and going flat out apeshit.
You see, saying 'clean off your desk' as a suggestion for the actual cleaning up of the surface of a desk is the exact same thing as saying 'get off my back' to a retard that's expecting a piggyback ride. The incongruence instantly triggers apeshit mode, as retards are too stupid to understand anything but the simplest, most literal of communicationing.
The brain of the common retard is comparable to the big, clunky mechanical calculators of the early 20th century... loud, slow, inefficient, extremely limited in functionality, prone to overheating and routinely resulting in grotesque error and mechanical breakdown, and defaulting automatically into apeshit mode at the slightest provocation.
Now, if you were to say to a full on, modern day retard -
'Clean off your desk'
- that retard would immediately default to apeshit mode and would begin an energetic and completely retarded attempt to clean everything in the room BUT the desk. And by CLEAN, I mean DESTROY COMPLETELY, according to the clunky brain hammerings of the total retard which has just been commanded to clean everything except for something while operating as full on retard going apeshit in full on apeshit mode. Obviously, the results would be devastating.
Since it's impossible to calculate with any certainties whether or not the person or persons standing in front of you, or anyone within earshot who may be receiving your omnidirectional cleaning suggestions for that matter, is or are fully retarded, it is therefore vital to broadcast these communications clearly, simply, and literally, especially when you're posting them online indiscriminately to millions of potential full-on retards. A careless command to 'lick clean a dirty ashtray' could initiate a full scale retard apocalypse, and that would spell the end for all of us... the retards included.
And that would just be a shame.
So, have a care when speaking aloud or typing loudly, wherever you are. You never know when a full blown retard might be in range. The future of the Earth, the survival of our species, blah blah blah.
Clean off your desk!
You know, it really should be clean ON your desk instead of clean OFF your desk, since the word 'OFF' kinda means 'away from', suggesting to the irrational mind that cleaning should occur away from your desk. I know exactly what you're thinking, so please bear with me, because my point is vitally important.
For instance... say you were obligated to give a retarded kid a piggyback ride, because of for whatever or something. You'd use this sentence structure to communicate with the retard:
verb, preposition, pronoun, noun
It's the exact same sentence structure used in the original statement under critical examination here:
Clean off your desk
But in this case, it would be:
Climb on my back
Now, since retards are mentally skittish to begin with and easily confused and are all lacking any real understanding regarding the nuance of natural language, it's critical that you should convey your meaning to one as simply and literally as possible, so as to avoid eliciting a short circuit - or a brain burn, as it's referred to clinically - inside the thick, insulated skull casings which house the coagulated brain mush which clumsily controls the primary retarded functioning of the retard, such as inhaling, excreting, swallowing, screaming incoherently, drooling, and going flat out apeshit.
You see, saying 'clean off your desk' as a suggestion for the actual cleaning up of the surface of a desk is the exact same thing as saying 'get off my back' to a retard that's expecting a piggyback ride. The incongruence instantly triggers apeshit mode, as retards are too stupid to understand anything but the simplest, most literal of communicationing.
The brain of the common retard is comparable to the big, clunky mechanical calculators of the early 20th century... loud, slow, inefficient, extremely limited in functionality, prone to overheating and routinely resulting in grotesque error and mechanical breakdown, and defaulting automatically into apeshit mode at the slightest provocation.
Now, if you were to say to a full on, modern day retard -
'Clean off your desk'
- that retard would immediately default to apeshit mode and would begin an energetic and completely retarded attempt to clean everything in the room BUT the desk. And by CLEAN, I mean DESTROY COMPLETELY, according to the clunky brain hammerings of the total retard which has just been commanded to clean everything except for something while operating as full on retard going apeshit in full on apeshit mode. Obviously, the results would be devastating.
Since it's impossible to calculate with any certainties whether or not the person or persons standing in front of you, or anyone within earshot who may be receiving your omnidirectional cleaning suggestions for that matter, is or are fully retarded, it is therefore vital to broadcast these communications clearly, simply, and literally, especially when you're posting them online indiscriminately to millions of potential full-on retards. A careless command to 'lick clean a dirty ashtray' could initiate a full scale retard apocalypse, and that would spell the end for all of us... the retards included.
And that would just be a shame.
So, have a care when speaking aloud or typing loudly, wherever you are. You never know when a full blown retard might be in range. The future of the Earth, the survival of our species, blah blah blah.
Fuck You, ESA!
Back in 2003, the ESA (European Space Agency - NASA's younger, dumber brother) gave the UKSA's (United Kingdom Space Agency - ESA's younger, dumberer step brother) Beagle 2 Mars lander a piggyback ride to Mars aboard the Mars Express mission.
Remember? Anybody else remember what happened to that mechanical clamburger looking thing, the Beagle 2 lander? And how it was supposed to pop open, like a... a waffle iron, and then flop out those two space waffles on each side, like a couple of space flavored Pop-Tarts? Remember how you don't remember it doing any of those things?
Yeah, it was a flop. Just the awfullest, colossalest, floppiest, sloppiest 40 million mile high dive belly flop onto another planet, EVER.
Y'all remember that now?
Well, that ESA kid on the other side of the lake just up and got too big for his britches in 2016, and decided to send it's very own 30 trazillion euro paperweight to Mars... and they named it the ExoMars mission.
Come on. I thought Europe was supposed to be trendy and ahead of the curve. Naming everything that's supposed to be awesome after the letter X didn't make the Mars Express any more X-Treme than it already wasn't, and that was at the tail end of the whole EXTREEEM!!! fad.
So why are you still doing it sixteen years later, ESA? Huh? Are you trying to bring back the old black? Trying to be retro for the hipsters, or whatever those things are called over there? Is that it? Are you trying to appeal to a worthless demographic? Why would you do that? Is your, uh, board of ministers or whatever run by stuffy old farts who still think the mimeograph machine is mind blowing technology? Huh? What?
You don't have to answer any of those, because here's the answer.
NOPE.
Sorry boutcher hipster-fueled next generation Waffleman with X-Treme autoskip protection and the latest European army man parachutes that went SPLAT all over Mars yesterday, like a Mongoloid hijacked the short bus and sent it careening toward Mars, hell bent for space waffles.
Come on, Europe. How hard is it to put an armless, legless robot with a walkie talkie on Mars, for Pete's sake? Your older, smarter brother has had like, seven of those things up there for the past 40 years, now. Four of them are cars by the way, and two of those cars are still driving around. One of them for thirteen years, and still going.
BAM! In your face, Europe! And Russia, and China too, as a matter of fact!
In your FACE, turdknockers of the world!
JPL RULES!
Remember? Anybody else remember what happened to that mechanical clamburger looking thing, the Beagle 2 lander? And how it was supposed to pop open, like a... a waffle iron, and then flop out those two space waffles on each side, like a couple of space flavored Pop-Tarts? Remember how you don't remember it doing any of those things?
Yeah, it was a flop. Just the awfullest, colossalest, floppiest, sloppiest 40 million mile high dive belly flop onto another planet, EVER.
Y'all remember that now?
Well, that ESA kid on the other side of the lake just up and got too big for his britches in 2016, and decided to send it's very own 30 trazillion euro paperweight to Mars... and they named it the ExoMars mission.
Come on. I thought Europe was supposed to be trendy and ahead of the curve. Naming everything that's supposed to be awesome after the letter X didn't make the Mars Express any more X-Treme than it already wasn't, and that was at the tail end of the whole EXTREEEM!!! fad.
So why are you still doing it sixteen years later, ESA? Huh? Are you trying to bring back the old black? Trying to be retro for the hipsters, or whatever those things are called over there? Is that it? Are you trying to appeal to a worthless demographic? Why would you do that? Is your, uh, board of ministers or whatever run by stuffy old farts who still think the mimeograph machine is mind blowing technology? Huh? What?
You don't have to answer any of those, because here's the answer.
NOPE.
Sorry boutcher hipster-fueled next generation Waffleman with X-Treme autoskip protection and the latest European army man parachutes that went SPLAT all over Mars yesterday, like a Mongoloid hijacked the short bus and sent it careening toward Mars, hell bent for space waffles.
Come on, Europe. How hard is it to put an armless, legless robot with a walkie talkie on Mars, for Pete's sake? Your older, smarter brother has had like, seven of those things up there for the past 40 years, now. Four of them are cars by the way, and two of those cars are still driving around. One of them for thirteen years, and still going.
BAM! In your face, Europe! And Russia, and China too, as a matter of fact!
In your FACE, turdknockers of the world!
JPL RULES!
Receipt Disaster
The musings of the 7-Eleven guy
Today I made a discovery of multi-dimensional proportions and unparalleled magnitude. After several minutes of thoughtful contemplation, I have now realized that the widespread dissemination of this information could potentially lead to a paradigm shift of unprecedented scale, the repercussions of which would absolutely be devastating to something or another... probably global civilization. That means you, personally. Therefore, I strongly feel that my initial reticence toward unleashing this potential planet buster is thoroughly justified.
However...
If there's one thing I absolutely know that I have zero chance of misunderstanding about my own understanding of myself, plus the public, which includes myself, is that that misunderstanding would necessarily be the understanding of the public demand for the truth, and by 'the public', I mean of course, you, dear reader, and also myself. We demand the truth, don't we? We know we do.
Allow us to demonstrate... try to think of a word that rhymes with truth that doesn't sound silly when spoken out loud, over and over. See? You demand the truth, and nothing but the truth will do of course, and I know this about you. Now, I don't wanna be a party poop, but this next part pretty much has to come next.
It all started with a dream I had several months ago. In this dream I was at work, checking a never-ending line of customers. After each customer, I'd crumple up the receipt and toss it into the wastepaper basket behind me, but every time, it would miss and land on the floor or under the counter. This continued for an interminable amount of dream-time, until the mountain behind me finally collapsed upon my head and back, suffocating me and crushing me underneath an avalanche of used receipt paper.
Ever since then, and until just a few hours ago, I've been living that nightmare at work each day, hundreds of times a day, with my ever mounting anxiety continuing to mount, like that ever mounting mountain of receipts... and like that mountain, I fully expected my sanity to collapse very soon, instantly transforming me into a pile of wet, gibbering idiot.
Today my fears were finally realized, as just a few hours ago I was blithely tossing a crumpled up piece of receipt paper directly through the unoccupied space immediately to the left of the wastepaper basket. At that moment my sanity choose to finally and unexpectedly collapse, just like I knew it would, and for a few seconds I really was a pile of wet, gibbering idiot.
However, I wasn't just any idiot, wet or gibbering or otherwise... I was an idiot savant! Oh, the memory of such glorious terror, of knowing the sheer slobbering genius of retarded brilliance, of witnessing the pristine potential of an unfettered moron, of experiencing the animalistic, bowel evacuating horror of undiminished, soul crushing understanding, and at the same time, fully realizing that it was the spasming shittle of pure genius which was violently evacuating my nether regions!
What seemed like several seconds of that was in actuality only a couple of seconds, and afterward, and to my own chagrin, I emerged from that temporary fugue state, slack-jawed and drooling, to the baffled regard of a customer who was waiting patiently for his receipt. The very receipt which, only seconds before, had elicited the cavalcade of synaptic effluvium from my embradtled brain. I told the customer that there wasn't no way that I was gonna dig around for that stupid piece of receipt paper, and that he couldn't make me do it either! I felt so empowered!
Now comes the piebaldism, the moment of revelation... here goes. What it was that I realized today, Devadander, was that those bunched up and crumpled little bits and pieces of receipt paper aren't aerodynamic, AT ALL! In fact, they're the exact opposite of aerodynamic! That's why when you throw them, they just do whatever and go wherever, which is almost always NOT where or what you wanted them to go or do!
Finally, everybody knows!
Expect to see me in Stockholm next year, receiving the Nobel Food Prize for splitting the ham-burger.
Today I made a discovery of multi-dimensional proportions and unparalleled magnitude. After several minutes of thoughtful contemplation, I have now realized that the widespread dissemination of this information could potentially lead to a paradigm shift of unprecedented scale, the repercussions of which would absolutely be devastating to something or another... probably global civilization. That means you, personally. Therefore, I strongly feel that my initial reticence toward unleashing this potential planet buster is thoroughly justified.
However...
If there's one thing I absolutely know that I have zero chance of misunderstanding about my own understanding of myself, plus the public, which includes myself, is that that misunderstanding would necessarily be the understanding of the public demand for the truth, and by 'the public', I mean of course, you, dear reader, and also myself. We demand the truth, don't we? We know we do.
Allow us to demonstrate... try to think of a word that rhymes with truth that doesn't sound silly when spoken out loud, over and over. See? You demand the truth, and nothing but the truth will do of course, and I know this about you. Now, I don't wanna be a party poop, but this next part pretty much has to come next.
It all started with a dream I had several months ago. In this dream I was at work, checking a never-ending line of customers. After each customer, I'd crumple up the receipt and toss it into the wastepaper basket behind me, but every time, it would miss and land on the floor or under the counter. This continued for an interminable amount of dream-time, until the mountain behind me finally collapsed upon my head and back, suffocating me and crushing me underneath an avalanche of used receipt paper.
Ever since then, and until just a few hours ago, I've been living that nightmare at work each day, hundreds of times a day, with my ever mounting anxiety continuing to mount, like that ever mounting mountain of receipts... and like that mountain, I fully expected my sanity to collapse very soon, instantly transforming me into a pile of wet, gibbering idiot.
Today my fears were finally realized, as just a few hours ago I was blithely tossing a crumpled up piece of receipt paper directly through the unoccupied space immediately to the left of the wastepaper basket. At that moment my sanity choose to finally and unexpectedly collapse, just like I knew it would, and for a few seconds I really was a pile of wet, gibbering idiot.
However, I wasn't just any idiot, wet or gibbering or otherwise... I was an idiot savant! Oh, the memory of such glorious terror, of knowing the sheer slobbering genius of retarded brilliance, of witnessing the pristine potential of an unfettered moron, of experiencing the animalistic, bowel evacuating horror of undiminished, soul crushing understanding, and at the same time, fully realizing that it was the spasming shittle of pure genius which was violently evacuating my nether regions!
What seemed like several seconds of that was in actuality only a couple of seconds, and afterward, and to my own chagrin, I emerged from that temporary fugue state, slack-jawed and drooling, to the baffled regard of a customer who was waiting patiently for his receipt. The very receipt which, only seconds before, had elicited the cavalcade of synaptic effluvium from my embradtled brain. I told the customer that there wasn't no way that I was gonna dig around for that stupid piece of receipt paper, and that he couldn't make me do it either! I felt so empowered!
Now comes the piebaldism, the moment of revelation... here goes. What it was that I realized today, Devadander, was that those bunched up and crumpled little bits and pieces of receipt paper aren't aerodynamic, AT ALL! In fact, they're the exact opposite of aerodynamic! That's why when you throw them, they just do whatever and go wherever, which is almost always NOT where or what you wanted them to go or do!
Finally, everybody knows!
Expect to see me in Stockholm next year, receiving the Nobel Food Prize for splitting the ham-burger.
Note backups 04
The seven DefCon levels of customer service
Customer: Camel Crush.
Clerk: K.
Description: Customer wants a pack of Camel Crush.
Difficulty: Nonexistent.
Observation: The most basic level of interaction. Efficiently bypasses any pretext of social dilly dallying.
.
.
.
DefCon 6
Customer: Hey.
Clerk: Hey.
Customer: Pack of Camel Crush.
Description: Simple acknowledgment of existence and item procurement.
Difficulty: Simple and easy. Almost no thinking involved.
Observation: The bare minimum of social pleasantries are observed.
.
.
.
DefCon 5
Customer: Hello.
Clerk: Hello.
Customer: Pack of Camel Crush.
Description: Basic social formalities are introduced.
Difficulty: Still simple and easy, but the vague threat of further interaction beyond the basic 'money for smokes' concept lingers.
Observation: Saying 'hello' forces customer interaction onto a basic personal level. The likelihood of eye contact throws body language into the equation, increasing the possibility that more words will have to be thought up and said, which could lead to further complications.
.
.
.
DefCon 4
Customer: How's it going?
Clerk: Pretty good.
Customer: Pack of Camel Crush.
Description: The next level of basic social interaction - a query for information, necessitating an appropriate response, in addition to procuring a pack of Camel Crush.
Difficulty: Simplicity is sacrificed for social niceties, introducing the possibility of even more complex social interaction.
Observation: Although a step up in complexity from the simple acknowledgment, this exchange occurs almost automatically, with both parties usually aware at an unconscious level that the customer has no real interest in how things are actually going for the clerk.
.
.
.
DefCon 3
Customer: How ya doing?
Me: Well, I've got a pinched nerve in my back -
Customer: Pack of Camel Crush.
Description: Comparable to 'how's it going' but without the feigned sincerity.
Difficulty: Possibly tiring. Although this exchange is still largely automatic, it is more personal. The probability of a simple exchange decreases with the possibile involvement of the ego.
Observation: When attempting to answer the question of 'how ya doing' with anything other than the stock reply of 'good' or 'ok', the clerk may suffer embarrassment or become pissed off when the customer cuts him off in mid-answer. It's important to note here that the only thing the customer really gives a flying horses patoot about is getting that pack of Camel Crush from point A to point B.
.
.
.
DefCon 2
Customer: Hey man. What's up? How's it going? Say, do you think I could... you know... or do you think you could, I mean, you know... payroll* a couple of beers and a couple of packs of Camel Crush? And I can get you back on Friday? *payroll - instead of paying for an item immediately, the cost of a purchased item is deducted from the clerks paycheck
Clerk: Aw crap...
Description: A blitzkrieg of social pleasantries, inquiries, and special requests forces thinking and talking into primary mode.
Difficulty: Exhausting.
Observation: This happens when the clerk is either too damn nice or too damn stupid. It usually begins by letting one guy slide for a pack of cigarettes and then another, leading to a snowball effect which results in a severely diminished paycheck.
.
.
.
DerfCon 1
Customer: How ya doin'?
Clerk: Well, my back -
Customer: Pack of Camel Crush.
Clerk: (sigh)
Customer: Oh, hang on...
Customer: ... and this 4-Loko.
Clerk: Got your ID?
Customer: What?
Clerk: I need a current one, not just this temporary piece of paper.
Customer: I got this from the DMV.
Clerk: Do you have the expired plastic one to go with it?
Customer: No.
Clerk: I'm sorry man, but I can't sell you the 4-Loko.
Customer: Well hell, why do they give you the temporary one then?
Clerk: I dunno.
Customer: Can she buy it?
Clerk: No, you guys came in together. She'd obviously be buying it for you, and that's illegal.
Customer: What if we left and then she came in by herself?
Clerk: Uh... no.
Customer: Why not? She's got her ID!
Clerk: Because I'm not that stupid.
Customer: What the FUCK, dude! I'm 21!
Clerk: You do understand that I can't take your word on that, right? That's why ID's are a thing.
Customer: But this IS my ID! I got the fucking thing from the DMV! See there? See my birthday? I'm 21!
Clerk: I understand that you're upset, and that being upset can make you stupid, and that a couple of days from now you'll probably look back on this and have yourself a good chuckle.
Customer: Fuck you man, you can't talk to me like that! I wanna talk to your manager!
Clerk: He doesn't have time for bullshit like this.
Customer: FUCK YOU, MAN!
Clerk: Could you get out of the way? You're holding up the line.
Customer: I'm gonna kick your ass tonight, just right as soon as you walk out that door! I'm gonna be waiting!
Clerk: Whatev.
Customer: ASSHOOOOOOOOLE.....
Description: Things fall apart, the center does not hold. The World War Three of customer interaction.
Difficulty: Yeesh.
Observation: Fuck it.
Customer: Camel Crush.
Clerk: K.
Description: Customer wants a pack of Camel Crush.
Difficulty: Nonexistent.
Observation: The most basic level of interaction. Efficiently bypasses any pretext of social dilly dallying.
.
.
.
DefCon 6
Customer: Hey.
Clerk: Hey.
Customer: Pack of Camel Crush.
Description: Simple acknowledgment of existence and item procurement.
Difficulty: Simple and easy. Almost no thinking involved.
Observation: The bare minimum of social pleasantries are observed.
.
.
.
DefCon 5
Customer: Hello.
Clerk: Hello.
Customer: Pack of Camel Crush.
Description: Basic social formalities are introduced.
Difficulty: Still simple and easy, but the vague threat of further interaction beyond the basic 'money for smokes' concept lingers.
Observation: Saying 'hello' forces customer interaction onto a basic personal level. The likelihood of eye contact throws body language into the equation, increasing the possibility that more words will have to be thought up and said, which could lead to further complications.
.
.
.
DefCon 4
Customer: How's it going?
Clerk: Pretty good.
Customer: Pack of Camel Crush.
Description: The next level of basic social interaction - a query for information, necessitating an appropriate response, in addition to procuring a pack of Camel Crush.
Difficulty: Simplicity is sacrificed for social niceties, introducing the possibility of even more complex social interaction.
Observation: Although a step up in complexity from the simple acknowledgment, this exchange occurs almost automatically, with both parties usually aware at an unconscious level that the customer has no real interest in how things are actually going for the clerk.
.
.
.
DefCon 3
Customer: How ya doing?
Me: Well, I've got a pinched nerve in my back -
Customer: Pack of Camel Crush.
Description: Comparable to 'how's it going' but without the feigned sincerity.
Difficulty: Possibly tiring. Although this exchange is still largely automatic, it is more personal. The probability of a simple exchange decreases with the possibile involvement of the ego.
Observation: When attempting to answer the question of 'how ya doing' with anything other than the stock reply of 'good' or 'ok', the clerk may suffer embarrassment or become pissed off when the customer cuts him off in mid-answer. It's important to note here that the only thing the customer really gives a flying horses patoot about is getting that pack of Camel Crush from point A to point B.
.
.
.
DefCon 2
Customer: Hey man. What's up? How's it going? Say, do you think I could... you know... or do you think you could, I mean, you know... payroll* a couple of beers and a couple of packs of Camel Crush? And I can get you back on Friday? *payroll - instead of paying for an item immediately, the cost of a purchased item is deducted from the clerks paycheck
Clerk: Aw crap...
Description: A blitzkrieg of social pleasantries, inquiries, and special requests forces thinking and talking into primary mode.
Difficulty: Exhausting.
Observation: This happens when the clerk is either too damn nice or too damn stupid. It usually begins by letting one guy slide for a pack of cigarettes and then another, leading to a snowball effect which results in a severely diminished paycheck.
.
.
.
DerfCon 1
Customer: How ya doin'?
Clerk: Well, my back -
Customer: Pack of Camel Crush.
Clerk: (sigh)
Customer: Oh, hang on...
Customer: ... and this 4-Loko.
Clerk: Got your ID?
Customer: What?
Clerk: I need a current one, not just this temporary piece of paper.
Customer: I got this from the DMV.
Clerk: Do you have the expired plastic one to go with it?
Customer: No.
Clerk: I'm sorry man, but I can't sell you the 4-Loko.
Customer: Well hell, why do they give you the temporary one then?
Clerk: I dunno.
Customer: Can she buy it?
Clerk: No, you guys came in together. She'd obviously be buying it for you, and that's illegal.
Customer: What if we left and then she came in by herself?
Clerk: Uh... no.
Customer: Why not? She's got her ID!
Clerk: Because I'm not that stupid.
Customer: What the FUCK, dude! I'm 21!
Clerk: You do understand that I can't take your word on that, right? That's why ID's are a thing.
Customer: But this IS my ID! I got the fucking thing from the DMV! See there? See my birthday? I'm 21!
Clerk: I understand that you're upset, and that being upset can make you stupid, and that a couple of days from now you'll probably look back on this and have yourself a good chuckle.
Customer: Fuck you man, you can't talk to me like that! I wanna talk to your manager!
Clerk: He doesn't have time for bullshit like this.
Customer: FUCK YOU, MAN!
Clerk: Could you get out of the way? You're holding up the line.
Customer: I'm gonna kick your ass tonight, just right as soon as you walk out that door! I'm gonna be waiting!
Clerk: Whatev.
Customer: ASSHOOOOOOOOLE.....
Description: Things fall apart, the center does not hold. The World War Three of customer interaction.
Difficulty: Yeesh.
Observation: Fuck it.
The Space Canoe
Four days ago today, the United Capracratic Ochlocracy of the Kakistocratic Union of Fascist Despots, Inc. launched a space canoe carrying a 300 bps heavy duty fax machine from their launch complex at the bottom of the Marianas Trench with a seven league bungee cord, and a new age was ushered in a few minutes ago as the first high speed according to snails internet portal was finally delivered to a remote asteroid located in the butthole of the Kuiper Belt.
Here underneath the Western Antarctic Ice Sheet internet technology is still in its infancy, thanks to Kim Jong Un spending his entire nuclear arsenal all at once in an attempt to destroy Santa Claus. Dennis Rodman was assassinated for providing faulty intelligence, which is hilarious. Unfortunately, the hilarity ends here.
Thanks to that debacle, accessing the internet here in our underlava bunkers depends greatly on the persistent functionality of a single state of the art EMP hardened 486DX^3 server hailing from the glory days of the double-oughts. That is, before the great Aztec vs. Inuit Wars of 1993.
The local population of Aztecs here at the bottom of the North Pole are the proud, possible descendants of their fathers who lost an entire war to Eskimos. They are haughty, and as a result, they resent the millennia old Inuit tradition of passing punishment unto the seventh son of the seventh son of every single convicted Aztec war criminal. To native Aztecs, such a law is an unholy abomination, and as a result, they are haughty, and righteously so.
Therefore, these last remaining Aztecs are forced against their will to refurbish their enormous war debt to the Inuit... debts incurred during a war which, ironically, was fought for the control of a still nonexistent West Pole.
A massive stratagem was devised to relocate the entire surviving Aztec population to Atlantis in order to work off their war debt as IT technicians. It was a dire undertaking. Many Aztecs were lost to their tempers, and almost no one was doing any IT at all. The history books refer to this time as 'troublesome', a word which many modern day Aztecs and Inuits alike agree makes not one damn bit of sense. What is it, a compound nounjectiverb?? It's fucking retarded!
Walks Carefully On Eggshells Like A Bear, an ancient Navajo philosopher hailing from the centuries immediately preceding the Aztec-Inuit wars of 1993, attempted to resolve the troublesome conundrum. What follows is a transcription of the single surviving page from a spiral notebook attributed to that great philosopher, translated from Navajo, to Aztec, to Inuit, and finally to Pidgin:
"Once I'd gotten the shape right, I tried to calculate an exact volume of troublesome, but super-calculus just wasn't super enough for number crunching of that magnitude. Therefore I had no choice but to invent 3-D paper, along with a brand new method for expressing numerals and variables in 3-D, which precipitated the inventing of the Zencil, which is basically a ball of pencil encased in a spherical graphite shell. By the way, cursive script looks amazing when it's written in every possible direction at the same time. I can't believe they're phasing that out of elementary school. Anyway, all of that was just so I'd have the right symbology for hyper-calculus, which I invented next. Not to brag or anything, but hyper-calculus beats the shit out of super-calculus, all the way back to the Nth dimension. So then I of course hyper-calculated the shit out of that troublesome weird word thing or whatever it is, with the resulting solution manifesting in mid-air as a mathematical singularity, which instantly evaporated in a blinding burst of virtual particle pairs, leaving behind a sparkling after-image of the result suspended in front of me, and slowly rotating...
*** 160 FEET OF BAMBOO, + OR - A FEW FEET ***
*** END OF LINE ***
...until it finally dissipated quietly."
Therefore it was a miracle when about five minutes ago as I was doing some last ditch research for this article, I happened upon an ancient BBS server dating back to the Aztec-Inuit Wars of 1993 which was, amazingly, still online, and hosting several top secret R&D message threads between the Coordinated Information Apparatchik and the Advanced Weapons Division of the Aztec War Ministry, detailing recent (at the time) technological breakthroughs in the field of advanced heat application for the purpose of bamboo weaponization. Imagine my bumblefucked surprise upon realizing that it was exactly this failure of research and development which prompted the coinage of the word 'troublesome'!
I'm finished. Now I just gotta fax this turd out to the butthole of the Oort cloud and I can finally blow my brain in.
AND A SPECIAL MESSAGE TO MY EMPLOYER, OMNI MAGAZINE ONLINE -
I QUIT!
Here underneath the Western Antarctic Ice Sheet internet technology is still in its infancy, thanks to Kim Jong Un spending his entire nuclear arsenal all at once in an attempt to destroy Santa Claus. Dennis Rodman was assassinated for providing faulty intelligence, which is hilarious. Unfortunately, the hilarity ends here.
Thanks to that debacle, accessing the internet here in our underlava bunkers depends greatly on the persistent functionality of a single state of the art EMP hardened 486DX^3 server hailing from the glory days of the double-oughts. That is, before the great Aztec vs. Inuit Wars of 1993.
The local population of Aztecs here at the bottom of the North Pole are the proud, possible descendants of their fathers who lost an entire war to Eskimos. They are haughty, and as a result, they resent the millennia old Inuit tradition of passing punishment unto the seventh son of the seventh son of every single convicted Aztec war criminal. To native Aztecs, such a law is an unholy abomination, and as a result, they are haughty, and righteously so.
Therefore, these last remaining Aztecs are forced against their will to refurbish their enormous war debt to the Inuit... debts incurred during a war which, ironically, was fought for the control of a still nonexistent West Pole.
A massive stratagem was devised to relocate the entire surviving Aztec population to Atlantis in order to work off their war debt as IT technicians. It was a dire undertaking. Many Aztecs were lost to their tempers, and almost no one was doing any IT at all. The history books refer to this time as 'troublesome', a word which many modern day Aztecs and Inuits alike agree makes not one damn bit of sense. What is it, a compound nounjectiverb?? It's fucking retarded!
Walks Carefully On Eggshells Like A Bear, an ancient Navajo philosopher hailing from the centuries immediately preceding the Aztec-Inuit wars of 1993, attempted to resolve the troublesome conundrum. What follows is a transcription of the single surviving page from a spiral notebook attributed to that great philosopher, translated from Navajo, to Aztec, to Inuit, and finally to Pidgin:
"Once I'd gotten the shape right, I tried to calculate an exact volume of troublesome, but super-calculus just wasn't super enough for number crunching of that magnitude. Therefore I had no choice but to invent 3-D paper, along with a brand new method for expressing numerals and variables in 3-D, which precipitated the inventing of the Zencil, which is basically a ball of pencil encased in a spherical graphite shell. By the way, cursive script looks amazing when it's written in every possible direction at the same time. I can't believe they're phasing that out of elementary school. Anyway, all of that was just so I'd have the right symbology for hyper-calculus, which I invented next. Not to brag or anything, but hyper-calculus beats the shit out of super-calculus, all the way back to the Nth dimension. So then I of course hyper-calculated the shit out of that troublesome weird word thing or whatever it is, with the resulting solution manifesting in mid-air as a mathematical singularity, which instantly evaporated in a blinding burst of virtual particle pairs, leaving behind a sparkling after-image of the result suspended in front of me, and slowly rotating...
*** 160 FEET OF BAMBOO, + OR - A FEW FEET ***
*** END OF LINE ***
...until it finally dissipated quietly."
Therefore it was a miracle when about five minutes ago as I was doing some last ditch research for this article, I happened upon an ancient BBS server dating back to the Aztec-Inuit Wars of 1993 which was, amazingly, still online, and hosting several top secret R&D message threads between the Coordinated Information Apparatchik and the Advanced Weapons Division of the Aztec War Ministry, detailing recent (at the time) technological breakthroughs in the field of advanced heat application for the purpose of bamboo weaponization. Imagine my bumblefucked surprise upon realizing that it was exactly this failure of research and development which prompted the coinage of the word 'troublesome'!
I'm finished. Now I just gotta fax this turd out to the butthole of the Oort cloud and I can finally blow my brain in.
AND A SPECIAL MESSAGE TO MY EMPLOYER, OMNI MAGAZINE ONLINE -
I QUIT!
Scrubbed
The final blog of the 7-Eleven guy before getting scrubbed by a tractor trailer
Okay, so I'm wandering around aimlessly at night after work as I'm wont to do, and I'm reading some retarded crap that took place on Facebook the other day - a back and forth between myself and another mutual moron regarding some incontestable data of a factual nature acquired by the NASA Dawn probe, and just recently released to the public concerning the functional dynamics of a primordial wormhole connecting the dwarf planet Ceres to an alien quantum spaghetti maker/booger zapper/high power laser launching facility/bagel toaster and cream cheese, via the 11th dimension, and I'm guffawing my stupid head off.
So, as this was happening, I was of course ambulatory and not necessarily paying any attention to anything whatsoever. This being the case, I was just about to step off of the curb and into the street. Or the boulevard, actually. Carroll Blvd. Who knew Carroll was a boulevard? Did anybody know that? To me, it's always been just Carroll. Like... take a left on Carroll.
Hey now, wait a second... I do believe that my android phone just displayed some remarkably intelligent initiative! You know what happened? Well, lemme tell you. Firstly, I'm using my phone's voice recognition thingy instead of manually inputting all of these words. I mean, swype typing is really cool and all, but talk typing is even cooler because you're using vibrating molecules of air as your input method. Anywho.
What happened was that the first couple of times I mentioned Carroll, my phone spelled it 'carol'. So I had to go back and manually type in the way it's spelled as the street name. Pardon me... boulevard. But what was really cool was that after typing it in a couple of times, it started to spell Carroll the way it's spelled as a street name. Carol! Wait, now it's retarded again...
What was this about in the first place? Oh, the curb! So anyway... yeah. I would have stepped off of the curb and right onto the road, or into... which is it? Onto or into?
Hang on. You can't step into a road, can you? You can step into the path of something ON the road, and you can step into the path of a truck, for instance, which is ON the road. You can even step INTO the truck, thus commandeering it's use for your own purpose, such as swerving out of your own way as you step onto the road and into your own path... that is, the path of the truck. The same truck that you're driving upon the same road upon which or onto which you're stepping... that is, the same road which the path (of the truck) into which you are stepping, and (the truck) which you stepped into (it's a stepside dually) lies upon, making a single moment comprised of simultaneously stepping into the path, into the truck, onto the road, and onto the path (at the same time), in the form of stepping, concurrently necessitating the stepping of (that is, the stepping of that which steps) onto a path, as well as into a path, which naturally and inevitably and logically leads to a series of descriptions (in the brain that is, via a neural highway system) a series of descriptions describing the connective properties of certain (purely imaginative) time-like events, all of which serve to demonstrate that the purposeful act of merely, yet forcibly, acknowledging that the existence of a concept pertaining to a hypothetical idea regarding the unlikely probability that, given an elementary basis which supports a fundamental proof of any given idea which - hypothetically speaking, and having been given a proper impetus, naturally exacerbated by the motive characteristics of an operandi - may (or may not) lead to several identical postulations describing the same notion (or notions), erroneous and unassailable, that the mere thought, concept, idea, plan, suggestion, intention, or even the factual, physical ACT of stepping INTO a road is just about not exactly the same as impossible. That is, rarely. And only from a few extremely precise and inherently unlikely points of view. But the basic premise regarding the logical possibility that all the shit I just said, simultaneously conceptualized and singularly executed, may illustrate the pure nature of the pristine thought... never wrought yet forever sought, taught for nought, then caught, fought over and bought, and finally shit on, shat on and shot... will forever stand on a beautiful pillar of corroded sauerkraut.
So...
Here are some actual real things that actually exist that you can really step into in real life, other than whatever the heck all that shit was up there that just got through being said.
A hole, of course. You can also step into a pile of dog shit, or a whirling device of intricate metal comprised of razor blades and salt shakers.
An awkward situation. A new identity, or a new skin. Figuratively or literally.
You can definitely step into a parlor, or an office. You can step into a wall, or even through a wall, via the stepping of into a doorway... but one thing I know for sure that you definitely CANNOT step into is a threshold. You also can't step into things which are necessarily under a certain size, or impossibly out of reach or motile. I mean, there has to be some kind of limit to all of this bullshit, or else things will just get really stupider and stupider.
Carroll Boulevard (it spelled it right that time, heck yeah!)
Oh yeah! Here's what I originally wanted to say way back at the beginning, before things got out of hand. So, as I was saying... there I was, laughing my butt off and just about to step right into the big ass middle of the road, and then I heard laughter off to my right. I stopped and looked, and there was this car full of girlies that I hadn't even noticed, parked right next to me and with all of the windows down. The girlie in the front seat was looking at me with this puzzled looking smile, like she wanted to be let in on the joke. That made me laugh some more, and then she started laughing, and then the entire car full of girlies started laughing...
So that's the way it was for about five seconds, with all of them just laughing and smiling and looking right at me, and me laughing and smiling back. And then I stepped right in front of an 18 wheeler and got scrubbed all over the boulevard.
Okay, so I'm wandering around aimlessly at night after work as I'm wont to do, and I'm reading some retarded crap that took place on Facebook the other day - a back and forth between myself and another mutual moron regarding some incontestable data of a factual nature acquired by the NASA Dawn probe, and just recently released to the public concerning the functional dynamics of a primordial wormhole connecting the dwarf planet Ceres to an alien quantum spaghetti maker/booger zapper/high power laser launching facility/bagel toaster and cream cheese, via the 11th dimension, and I'm guffawing my stupid head off.
So, as this was happening, I was of course ambulatory and not necessarily paying any attention to anything whatsoever. This being the case, I was just about to step off of the curb and into the street. Or the boulevard, actually. Carroll Blvd. Who knew Carroll was a boulevard? Did anybody know that? To me, it's always been just Carroll. Like... take a left on Carroll.
Hey now, wait a second... I do believe that my android phone just displayed some remarkably intelligent initiative! You know what happened? Well, lemme tell you. Firstly, I'm using my phone's voice recognition thingy instead of manually inputting all of these words. I mean, swype typing is really cool and all, but talk typing is even cooler because you're using vibrating molecules of air as your input method. Anywho.
What happened was that the first couple of times I mentioned Carroll, my phone spelled it 'carol'. So I had to go back and manually type in the way it's spelled as the street name. Pardon me... boulevard. But what was really cool was that after typing it in a couple of times, it started to spell Carroll the way it's spelled as a street name. Carol! Wait, now it's retarded again...
What was this about in the first place? Oh, the curb! So anyway... yeah. I would have stepped off of the curb and right onto the road, or into... which is it? Onto or into?
Hang on. You can't step into a road, can you? You can step into the path of something ON the road, and you can step into the path of a truck, for instance, which is ON the road. You can even step INTO the truck, thus commandeering it's use for your own purpose, such as swerving out of your own way as you step onto the road and into your own path... that is, the path of the truck. The same truck that you're driving upon the same road upon which or onto which you're stepping... that is, the same road which the path (of the truck) into which you are stepping, and (the truck) which you stepped into (it's a stepside dually) lies upon, making a single moment comprised of simultaneously stepping into the path, into the truck, onto the road, and onto the path (at the same time), in the form of stepping, concurrently necessitating the stepping of (that is, the stepping of that which steps) onto a path, as well as into a path, which naturally and inevitably and logically leads to a series of descriptions (in the brain that is, via a neural highway system) a series of descriptions describing the connective properties of certain (purely imaginative) time-like events, all of which serve to demonstrate that the purposeful act of merely, yet forcibly, acknowledging that the existence of a concept pertaining to a hypothetical idea regarding the unlikely probability that, given an elementary basis which supports a fundamental proof of any given idea which - hypothetically speaking, and having been given a proper impetus, naturally exacerbated by the motive characteristics of an operandi - may (or may not) lead to several identical postulations describing the same notion (or notions), erroneous and unassailable, that the mere thought, concept, idea, plan, suggestion, intention, or even the factual, physical ACT of stepping INTO a road is just about not exactly the same as impossible. That is, rarely. And only from a few extremely precise and inherently unlikely points of view. But the basic premise regarding the logical possibility that all the shit I just said, simultaneously conceptualized and singularly executed, may illustrate the pure nature of the pristine thought... never wrought yet forever sought, taught for nought, then caught, fought over and bought, and finally shit on, shat on and shot... will forever stand on a beautiful pillar of corroded sauerkraut.
So...
Here are some actual real things that actually exist that you can really step into in real life, other than whatever the heck all that shit was up there that just got through being said.
A hole, of course. You can also step into a pile of dog shit, or a whirling device of intricate metal comprised of razor blades and salt shakers.
An awkward situation. A new identity, or a new skin. Figuratively or literally.
You can definitely step into a parlor, or an office. You can step into a wall, or even through a wall, via the stepping of into a doorway... but one thing I know for sure that you definitely CANNOT step into is a threshold. You also can't step into things which are necessarily under a certain size, or impossibly out of reach or motile. I mean, there has to be some kind of limit to all of this bullshit, or else things will just get really stupider and stupider.
Carroll Boulevard (it spelled it right that time, heck yeah!)
Oh yeah! Here's what I originally wanted to say way back at the beginning, before things got out of hand. So, as I was saying... there I was, laughing my butt off and just about to step right into the big ass middle of the road, and then I heard laughter off to my right. I stopped and looked, and there was this car full of girlies that I hadn't even noticed, parked right next to me and with all of the windows down. The girlie in the front seat was looking at me with this puzzled looking smile, like she wanted to be let in on the joke. That made me laugh some more, and then she started laughing, and then the entire car full of girlies started laughing...
So that's the way it was for about five seconds, with all of them just laughing and smiling and looking right at me, and me laughing and smiling back. And then I stepped right in front of an 18 wheeler and got scrubbed all over the boulevard.
Pseudo-Elizabethan Madness
Behold. A bunch of ridiculous pseudo-Elizabethan madness.
...................
Sir His Lordingslyship Chuddlewick Churlingdearth the Eventual, Shirereeve and High Protector of the Fiefdom
Sir Phylius Ebolium Herpustulus Symplexium II of Claemidheumshire
Willardslip Kempspirits
Umberleigh Porridgegorst
Castledon Thrushfinger
Ellisweal Complingreaves
Terdswurth Flaerlingsnip
Threshington Broadplunger
Alveldt Barberslaw
Elendelph Spinsterwelly
Marshstin Gobberdsbush
Wexwall Ensorcellkirk
Aynesney Baconfork
Grangedon Bloodmow
Greevesley Scroggsbottle
Bexley Clithersbrake
Jimberton Plimmsdon
Basildorf Frillecklea
Englewich Fevergrave
Lydlycke Follyspirits Twarbyveldt Cheapsteeple Fevergrave
Harlshawe Cheapsteeple
Higgsry Briggsry
Gagehaug Twarbyveldt
Fleghmsley Privywhistle
Marslick Blodsporte
Teesdun Thursbysbrygg
Erminshaw Spruntslea
Lucillia Newdewalk
Gorlingsly Cripplebush
...................
Sir His Lordingslyship Chuddlewick Churlingdearth the Eventual, Shirereeve and High Protector of the Fiefdom
Sir Phylius Ebolium Herpustulus Symplexium II of Claemidheumshire
Willardslip Kempspirits
Umberleigh Porridgegorst
Castledon Thrushfinger
Ellisweal Complingreaves
Terdswurth Flaerlingsnip
Threshington Broadplunger
Alveldt Barberslaw
Elendelph Spinsterwelly
Marshstin Gobberdsbush
Wexwall Ensorcellkirk
Aynesney Baconfork
Grangedon Bloodmow
Greevesley Scroggsbottle
Bexley Clithersbrake
Jimberton Plimmsdon
Basildorf Frillecklea
Englewich Fevergrave
Lydlycke Follyspirits Twarbyveldt Cheapsteeple Fevergrave
Harlshawe Cheapsteeple
Higgsry Briggsry
Gagehaug Twarbyveldt
Fleghmsley Privywhistle
Marslick Blodsporte
Teesdun Thursbysbrygg
Erminshaw Spruntslea
Lucillia Newdewalk
Gorlingsly Cripplebush
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