In a massively overdone ironic rant, I will attempt to explain the consequences resulting from the continued use of blogs, through (you guessed it) a blog. How creative.
Firstly, blogs simply cannot replace a simple human conversation. Never have I ever spoken to a person who tells me only about their experiences grocery shopping, or their latest observation on cyberspace politics, and does not expect a reply in return. Consider a world where all humans spoke as they currently speak in the blogosphere, ranting on about minute daily tasks, or (even worse) their own opinions. There would be no more pudding, for all the pudding factory workers would have died from intensely acute boredom. (What could a person working at a pudding factory possibly have to say that is of any interest to anyone?)
Secondly, blogs are of the Internet, and therefore of Satan himself, potentially Voldemort as well, and certainly the Russian Communists, who have created blogs in a desperate attempt to destroy democracy.
Thirdly, the word blog is reminiscent of a horrid, horrid disease that attacked and nearly destroyed many East Asian colonies in the late 15th century. Named the Blogian Flu, in honor of it's first victim Tsao Blog, this virus ravaged the countryside for nearly 100 years, until eventually extinguished by its only weakness, orange marmalade. Thankfully, East Asian colonies were known for their preserved jams and jellies, and therefore, the casualties were eventually contained.
And Finally, I am blogging. That should be enough to convince any of you to stop using them.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Saturday, July 30, 2011
A Test Flight Story: A Mad Hatter Speech
Tisk, tisk. This is something I say to myself. Tisk, tisk. Silly me, silly world, silly plans, silly thoughts. It's all caught up in a Washing Machine Universe, and the soap is lost away somewhere. Tisk, tisk.
How sad, sad, sad, we are. Love and Death and all those songs written about them only serve to pretend to understand what we can be. Children in a field of Daisies, that's all we are. Squabbling little children. Tisk, tisk.
Polaroids are the closest metaphor to life I know. Click, click. And there we are. Printed out on some expensive glossy paper. Little children in a Daisy field, frozen on paper. Just like that. Click, click. Tisk, tisk. Swish goes the Daisies, and swish goes the souls of the little children, and the camera that represents life oh so very well just clicks away.
Like a clock. Tick, tick, click, click, tock. It's only a metaphor, and a poor one at that. A collage of misinterpreted pictures and glossy paper.
How small, small, small we are. The Daisies tower above us, even flowers are smarter, bigger, better. But flowers cannot think, cannot smell, cannot blink, cannot giggle like a pretty girl on a roller coaster. These are our things, our minds that feel the need to feel bigger than flowers. Tisk, tisk. Click, click. Polaroids cover the floor.
The Washing Machine Universe spins on. And on. Where is the soap?
Spinning with mindless ambition, we ignore the flames licking the edge of the Daisy field.
Not so sad, now, watch yourself.
The flames slip and slide over the flowers, and one by one, the children go to them. Not because they want to, but because they have to. Realize this. Flames are death here. Another poor metaphor. Death is happier than we give it credit for. Flames dance, twirl, spin in ecstasy. The children squabble on. Tisk, tisk. Click, click, the camera says, the only warning. The children do not care, they cannot see. Flames eat. Chew, crunch. Yum. Then die away. Gone are the flames, for now. The children do not notice their numbers thinning, growing small, growing inwards.
Tisk, tisk. Click, click. Chomp, chomp. Squabble, squabble. Where's the soap?
How sad, sad, sad, we are. Love and Death and all those songs written about them only serve to pretend to understand what we can be. Children in a field of Daisies, that's all we are. Squabbling little children. Tisk, tisk.
Polaroids are the closest metaphor to life I know. Click, click. And there we are. Printed out on some expensive glossy paper. Little children in a Daisy field, frozen on paper. Just like that. Click, click. Tisk, tisk. Swish goes the Daisies, and swish goes the souls of the little children, and the camera that represents life oh so very well just clicks away.
Like a clock. Tick, tick, click, click, tock. It's only a metaphor, and a poor one at that. A collage of misinterpreted pictures and glossy paper.
How small, small, small we are. The Daisies tower above us, even flowers are smarter, bigger, better. But flowers cannot think, cannot smell, cannot blink, cannot giggle like a pretty girl on a roller coaster. These are our things, our minds that feel the need to feel bigger than flowers. Tisk, tisk. Click, click. Polaroids cover the floor.
The Washing Machine Universe spins on. And on. Where is the soap?
Spinning with mindless ambition, we ignore the flames licking the edge of the Daisy field.
Not so sad, now, watch yourself.
The flames slip and slide over the flowers, and one by one, the children go to them. Not because they want to, but because they have to. Realize this. Flames are death here. Another poor metaphor. Death is happier than we give it credit for. Flames dance, twirl, spin in ecstasy. The children squabble on. Tisk, tisk. Click, click, the camera says, the only warning. The children do not care, they cannot see. Flames eat. Chew, crunch. Yum. Then die away. Gone are the flames, for now. The children do not notice their numbers thinning, growing small, growing inwards.
Tisk, tisk. Click, click. Chomp, chomp. Squabble, squabble. Where's the soap?
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