Do not go into the basement.
No, really, do not go into the basement.
If you're thinking that you probably should ignore this warning because there's something cool in the basement, rest assured that there is not. There is nothing cool in the basement. I'm not saying this because I want to keep cool things from you. Do not go into the basement.
Now you're wondering whether you can trust me. You don't have to trust me. I have signed affidavits from various important people which cannot be displayed here but which I will show you at a time convenient for both of us. They will tell you that I speak the truth when I tell you do not go into the basement.
You are perhaps thinking this is a Pandora's Box situation. That there may not be anything cool in the basement, but rather that there is something horrible down there that must not be seen. Either it's something which might escape if you go down there or it's something that you cannot unsee. A terrible knowledge which cannot be removed from your brain once it's in there. Perhaps I'm telling you this for your own good, but do not go into the basement.
I don't have affidavits attesting to my sincerity when I say that there is nothing down there which can escape and no horrible knowledge which the basement contains. I should have anticipated your inability to listen to reason and procured them, but I was busy and tired and really, it's my basement and I don't give a damn what you think. Do not go into the basement.
You're going into the basement, aren't you?
I don't know why I bother. I probably shouldn't have put these signs up.
Certainly not on the stairs leading to the basement, where their bright colors and fancy typography would attract attention.
Well, I didn't warn you. I commanded you, and you ignored my commandments, so hey, go ahead, go into the basement. Wipe your feet please.
Eggs
You've got to be very careful with eggs, particularly when they're eggs produced by chickens to whom you've been feeding a steady diet of nitroglycerin and gunpowder. These are things you learn in the sausage industry.
Bev Macklegruber didn't learn these things because she wasn't in the sausage industry. She was in architecture, and business was booming. Literally, because she threw eggs at a competitor's building site and learned the lesson with which we began this story.
Or rather, she would have learned it, but it's difficult to learn something when you only have a split second to absorb the knowledge before you are reduced to a fine mist of particles which had used to be a woman who wasn't careful with dangerous eggs. Can it be said that she learned it at all? She certainly didn't take any tests on it, so her retention cannot be known.
Don't blame her too much though, because in fairness she didn't know that these eggs were in any way more dangerous than your garden-variety egg from your garden-variety chicken. She had purchased them several hours previously for a suspiciously low price from a vendor who had only one eye and was missing several fingers, and who smelled strongly of sulfur and saltpeter, but how was Bev to know?
That this vendor had not warned her of her need to be careful is also somewhat suspicious. It almost makes one think that Bev Macklegruber was the intended victim of this accident. Almost. But we are not here to point fingers. Of which we are in possession of ten. We promise. This eye patch is for a skin condition.
Be all of that as it may, you've got to be careful with eggs, even the normal variety which haven't been infused with enough powerful explosives to level several city blocks. So whose fault is it really?
Bev Macklegruber didn't learn these things because she wasn't in the sausage industry. She was in architecture, and business was booming. Literally, because she threw eggs at a competitor's building site and learned the lesson with which we began this story.
Or rather, she would have learned it, but it's difficult to learn something when you only have a split second to absorb the knowledge before you are reduced to a fine mist of particles which had used to be a woman who wasn't careful with dangerous eggs. Can it be said that she learned it at all? She certainly didn't take any tests on it, so her retention cannot be known.
Don't blame her too much though, because in fairness she didn't know that these eggs were in any way more dangerous than your garden-variety egg from your garden-variety chicken. She had purchased them several hours previously for a suspiciously low price from a vendor who had only one eye and was missing several fingers, and who smelled strongly of sulfur and saltpeter, but how was Bev to know?
That this vendor had not warned her of her need to be careful is also somewhat suspicious. It almost makes one think that Bev Macklegruber was the intended victim of this accident. Almost. But we are not here to point fingers. Of which we are in possession of ten. We promise. This eye patch is for a skin condition.
Be all of that as it may, you've got to be careful with eggs, even the normal variety which haven't been infused with enough powerful explosives to level several city blocks. So whose fault is it really?
Milk
I was hired to do graphic design for a company specializing in ant-lion milk. They claimed it was the next big thing, that all the entrepreneurs of the world drank it every morning to get big ideas, and that it would increase the size of your secondary sexual characteristics by a factor of fifty.
I thought, going in, and based on the promotional material, that it was simply a cute name for a protein shake or something. "Ant-Lion Milk! Be Focus!" It seemed like your typical start-up crap.
But when I visited the factory, there were thousands of giant ant-lions. Giant. Big as horses. And while I'd never really given much thought to the implications of the fact that ant-lions aren't mammals, I put plenty of thought into those implications right then and there.
Turns out there's a delicate process to milking something that's not a mammal, and the resulting product isn't so much milk as a secretion of various glands. I mean, so is milk, but this "milk" could only charitably be called "milk" and a lawsuit later in the process enshrined those quotation marks in stone, let me tell you. The FDA have very strict rules about what can and can't be called milk, and while this company maintained that those rules were ignorance being promoted by Big Dairy, thus far no judge has sided with them.
It may have something to do with the consistency of the "milk," which must be treated with various solvents in order to be made liquid enough to be put into bottles. To say nothing of the reagents which must be used to keep the "milk" from eating through glass, plastic, metal, and ceramic when it's in a liquid state. But, "Be focus!" and so forth, and apparently a big part of "being focus" is screaming and retching.
In any case, I didn't keep the job long because I was eaten rather quickly by one of the giant ant-lions. I'm typing this from inside its stomach, in fact. If you read this, please send help, or at least don't drink ant-lion milk.
Sorry, "milk."
A Lot of Money
Maximilian Grout and I decided to have a beard-growing contest. "I just think a beard would really make my jawline pop," was his explanation. I just wanted to win.
We set the stakes at $3, which was a lot of money at the time. In fact, I'd take $3 right now. Hey, $3 is $3. But at this point, that was a lot of money because you could buy a ferry ride to Fun Island for a quarter and milkshakes were two cents and a strange coin that they don't use anymore. It was called "the grig" and it was worth $15 but couldn't be exchanged for real money, so it was basically worthless. The milkshake place really seemed to like them though. We'd find them on the street and then go looking for two cents.
But I didn't really like milkshakes, so the loss of money didn't seem all that big a deal to me. I mean, I liked having money, because Fun Island was indeed fun, and I liked the ability to purchase a milkshake even though I didn't actually do it. I suppose there was some kind of mental inertia in me which made me desire something I almost never actually wanted. But isn't that the way with money?
"We're pretty young to be growing beards," I said. "I guess we should give it a week."
"A week," replied Maximilian Grout, because it seemed like the thing to say in agreement. Just so we could be sure that there had been no loss of information in the transmission. Once, a woman on the streetcorner told me I would be a great king over all the Andals, but it turned out that she had just asked me directions to the nearest phone booth, and I really annoyed her by cheering and walking away to go hunt for a suitable crown, so she cursed me. It was a minor curse. I grew out of it.
So we gave it a week and then reconvened. Maximilian Grout had a beard that was two feet long and bright blue. I had nothing.
"So I guess I win," we both said at the same time.
"What do you mean, 'I win?'" we both asked at the same time.
"Look, saying exactly the same thing at the same time is really going to cut down on our ability to communicate," we both said at the same time.
Maximilian Grout held up his hand. I waited. "I'll go first," we both said at the same time.
There was more of this, and it involved tigers, but I'll skip to the point where we both decided that since we hadn't really specified what the rules of the contest were, we couldn't determine who had won. Maximilian Grout pulled off his fake beard at one point and said, "Well, if you win by having the shortest beard, then I was just faking it, so I win."
To which I replied, "Well, if you win by having the longest beard, you were cheating, so I win."
Like I said, there was more of it. The tigers didn't appear until fairly late in the story, but they weren't important. In the end, we both felt like we'd lost. Which is a parable for competition if there ever was one, I suppose.
Since neither of us actually had $3, we couldn't take the ferry to Fun Island anyway. Which was fine, because Fun Island is really more an ideal than a place. That's what the sign at the ferry said anyway.
We set the stakes at $3, which was a lot of money at the time. In fact, I'd take $3 right now. Hey, $3 is $3. But at this point, that was a lot of money because you could buy a ferry ride to Fun Island for a quarter and milkshakes were two cents and a strange coin that they don't use anymore. It was called "the grig" and it was worth $15 but couldn't be exchanged for real money, so it was basically worthless. The milkshake place really seemed to like them though. We'd find them on the street and then go looking for two cents.
But I didn't really like milkshakes, so the loss of money didn't seem all that big a deal to me. I mean, I liked having money, because Fun Island was indeed fun, and I liked the ability to purchase a milkshake even though I didn't actually do it. I suppose there was some kind of mental inertia in me which made me desire something I almost never actually wanted. But isn't that the way with money?
"We're pretty young to be growing beards," I said. "I guess we should give it a week."
"A week," replied Maximilian Grout, because it seemed like the thing to say in agreement. Just so we could be sure that there had been no loss of information in the transmission. Once, a woman on the streetcorner told me I would be a great king over all the Andals, but it turned out that she had just asked me directions to the nearest phone booth, and I really annoyed her by cheering and walking away to go hunt for a suitable crown, so she cursed me. It was a minor curse. I grew out of it.
So we gave it a week and then reconvened. Maximilian Grout had a beard that was two feet long and bright blue. I had nothing.
"So I guess I win," we both said at the same time.
"What do you mean, 'I win?'" we both asked at the same time.
"Look, saying exactly the same thing at the same time is really going to cut down on our ability to communicate," we both said at the same time.
Maximilian Grout held up his hand. I waited. "I'll go first," we both said at the same time.
There was more of this, and it involved tigers, but I'll skip to the point where we both decided that since we hadn't really specified what the rules of the contest were, we couldn't determine who had won. Maximilian Grout pulled off his fake beard at one point and said, "Well, if you win by having the shortest beard, then I was just faking it, so I win."
To which I replied, "Well, if you win by having the longest beard, you were cheating, so I win."
Like I said, there was more of it. The tigers didn't appear until fairly late in the story, but they weren't important. In the end, we both felt like we'd lost. Which is a parable for competition if there ever was one, I suppose.
Since neither of us actually had $3, we couldn't take the ferry to Fun Island anyway. Which was fine, because Fun Island is really more an ideal than a place. That's what the sign at the ferry said anyway.
A Koan
The Master Joshu was walking in the garden of the Emperor when he was approached by a woman in white. "You are the master?" she asked him.
"You have sought much, yet you ask little," he replied, this being the typical thing for Zen masters to respond.
"Why are Zen masters so damn inscrutable?" the woman asked.
"The tree that stands in the garden hears all, yet says nothing."
"Not really an answer to my question," said the woman, growing irritated. "I'm out here trying to find Master Joshu so I can tell him his dinner is ready."
"Oh, why didn't you say so?" said Joshu. "I'm really hungry." And he went in and ate dinner. Absolutely no one was enlightened. In fact, a few people who had been enlightened got stupider. But such is the way with Zen masters. You win some, you stand silently under a waterfall and think about spring.
"You have sought much, yet you ask little," he replied, this being the typical thing for Zen masters to respond.
"Why are Zen masters so damn inscrutable?" the woman asked.
"The tree that stands in the garden hears all, yet says nothing."
"Not really an answer to my question," said the woman, growing irritated. "I'm out here trying to find Master Joshu so I can tell him his dinner is ready."
"Oh, why didn't you say so?" said Joshu. "I'm really hungry." And he went in and ate dinner. Absolutely no one was enlightened. In fact, a few people who had been enlightened got stupider. But such is the way with Zen masters. You win some, you stand silently under a waterfall and think about spring.
Miracle Weight Loss
I tried a miracle weight loss cream once which claimed that by application to the thorax, one could reduce one's weight until one looked like a popular movie star. They didn't specify which movie star, but I figured they couldn't mean anyone but the greatest actor of our age, perhaps of any age, Morvan Cringlefanx. Anyway, I liked the odds.
The first application went smoothly enough, although I did have some trouble figuring out whether to put any inside my belly button. I have a very deep belly button, or so teams of spelunkers have told me. They lost a few good men down there, mostly to lint, but apparently there's also a side passage which fills with water when the tide is in. I let them hold memorial services every year at the appropriate time. Least I can do.
But I decided that if it didn't work without putting it in my belly button, I didn't want it to work at all, so I slathered it all over my thorax and ate a hearty meal, as pictured on the box. I slept and dreamed of Morvan Cringlefanx in Destruction on Peak 20, which isn't some of his best work but really showcases his abs.
It turns out that this was a weight loss cream for insects. The "thorax" really should have given it away for me, but I was desperate for a fix, as my meals are perhaps more hearty than is strictly necessary. But my exoskeleton has never looked shinier, so while Morvan Cringlefanx might still be out of my league, I am dating a very attractive wasp. I say "dating," but really she just stings me. A lot. Please send help.
The first application went smoothly enough, although I did have some trouble figuring out whether to put any inside my belly button. I have a very deep belly button, or so teams of spelunkers have told me. They lost a few good men down there, mostly to lint, but apparently there's also a side passage which fills with water when the tide is in. I let them hold memorial services every year at the appropriate time. Least I can do.
But I decided that if it didn't work without putting it in my belly button, I didn't want it to work at all, so I slathered it all over my thorax and ate a hearty meal, as pictured on the box. I slept and dreamed of Morvan Cringlefanx in Destruction on Peak 20, which isn't some of his best work but really showcases his abs.
It turns out that this was a weight loss cream for insects. The "thorax" really should have given it away for me, but I was desperate for a fix, as my meals are perhaps more hearty than is strictly necessary. But my exoskeleton has never looked shinier, so while Morvan Cringlefanx might still be out of my league, I am dating a very attractive wasp. I say "dating," but really she just stings me. A lot. Please send help.
Testing
This is a test of the Emergency Broadcasting System. It is only a test.
If it weren't, this would be a fine time to panic. But it is, so no need to panic.
No, really, don't panic. There's no reason for alarm.
I don't think you're really understanding the message. We're just testing it so if there is an actual emergency, we'll know it works.
Well, I suppose it could stop working between this test and the next catastrophe, but if we never test it, we'll have even less chance of catching errors before the next catastrophe.
No, we cannot simply take over the airwaves and broadcast nothing but this until a catastrophe actually occurs. People would get bored. And that noise we play at the beginning... have you thought this through?
Have you stopped panicking?
Okay, how about we tell you a nice story. Once upon a time, in a far away kingdom, there was a dragon who was rampaging through the land, but...
No, there is no dragon rampaging through the land currently. See, this is what we get for trying to be helpful. Now all those people who just tuned in in the middle of this think that we're under attack by dragons, when in fact this is merely a test of the Emergency Broadcast System and there's absolutely no reason to panic. None whatsoever. Please believe us when we say this. We're just testing.
If this were an actual emergency, you'd all be dead right now because we wouldn't have gotten around to telling you what the emergency was. Are you happy?
This concludes our broadcast day. Play the anthem, Jerry, I don't give a damn.
If it weren't, this would be a fine time to panic. But it is, so no need to panic.
No, really, don't panic. There's no reason for alarm.
I don't think you're really understanding the message. We're just testing it so if there is an actual emergency, we'll know it works.
Well, I suppose it could stop working between this test and the next catastrophe, but if we never test it, we'll have even less chance of catching errors before the next catastrophe.
No, we cannot simply take over the airwaves and broadcast nothing but this until a catastrophe actually occurs. People would get bored. And that noise we play at the beginning... have you thought this through?
Have you stopped panicking?
Okay, how about we tell you a nice story. Once upon a time, in a far away kingdom, there was a dragon who was rampaging through the land, but...
No, there is no dragon rampaging through the land currently. See, this is what we get for trying to be helpful. Now all those people who just tuned in in the middle of this think that we're under attack by dragons, when in fact this is merely a test of the Emergency Broadcast System and there's absolutely no reason to panic. None whatsoever. Please believe us when we say this. We're just testing.
If this were an actual emergency, you'd all be dead right now because we wouldn't have gotten around to telling you what the emergency was. Are you happy?
This concludes our broadcast day. Play the anthem, Jerry, I don't give a damn.
Locusts
When the locusts came they were very polite. "Excuse us," they said, the endless susurations of their legs rubbing together a constant background noise behind them.
I had been elected by the townsfolk to negotiate. They had covered me in warm sulfur paste to protect me from being eaten. "I have come to plead for our lives," I said to the locusts, as it seemed rather foolish to pretend we had any bargaining power.
"Why do you smell so terrible?" they asked me. I explained about the sulfur paste, which got a good laugh. "We don't want to eat you," some of them said while the others were laughing. "We're here about the plumbing."
It turns out they were really good plumbers. Widow Gorblatt had called a service because her toilet wouldn't flush, and the service sent locusts. These days, everything is subcontractors.
I felt rather foolish and smelled terrible, but the locusts assured me that they understood. And they sold me a grease trap at cost, so they were alright in my book.
Of course, once they left, we discovered that rats had made off with most of our grain stores while we were distracted, and we all starved that winter, but at least the drains were clean.
I had been elected by the townsfolk to negotiate. They had covered me in warm sulfur paste to protect me from being eaten. "I have come to plead for our lives," I said to the locusts, as it seemed rather foolish to pretend we had any bargaining power.
"Why do you smell so terrible?" they asked me. I explained about the sulfur paste, which got a good laugh. "We don't want to eat you," some of them said while the others were laughing. "We're here about the plumbing."
It turns out they were really good plumbers. Widow Gorblatt had called a service because her toilet wouldn't flush, and the service sent locusts. These days, everything is subcontractors.
I felt rather foolish and smelled terrible, but the locusts assured me that they understood. And they sold me a grease trap at cost, so they were alright in my book.
Of course, once they left, we discovered that rats had made off with most of our grain stores while we were distracted, and we all starved that winter, but at least the drains were clean.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)