Why does Timmy lie?

About three hundred years ago, Tim Smith was walking down the street. His shoes, while still in fair condition, were slightly worn, the leather being scratched in a few spots.

The cobbler, Joe Smith, stopped Tim and said, “Oi, ther’ Tim, hows about a noo pair o’ shoes fer ya? I make ‘t best in all ‘t land.”

Tim replied, “Oi Joe, you know I gots quite the ‘and meself at fixin’ shoes, n I done fixed these up twice al’eady. I do reckon they be lastin’ ’bout two more fixins ‘fore I must needs see the likes uh you!”

Joe, saddened by Tim’s statement, quieted down and tried to sell shoes to some other passerby. Back in Joe and Tim’s time, money was a rare and precious thing. The vast majority of people maintained their own homes, clothing, food supply, simply because people could not afford to not have those simple skills. Because of this, there was little leisure time. Leisure was getting wasted off rye after 18 hours of working on a farm, or in a shop, or later, in a factory.

Today, Tim’s descendant Timmy has more leisure time than Tim Smith could ever dream of. Timmy works eight hours a day, and the rest is up to him. Timmy spends this extra time on the internet, or playing video games, or reading random articles.

But unlike Tim, Timmy is dependent upon Giant for his food, upon Nike for his shoes,  upon Target for his clothes, Men’s Warehouse for his suit, Wells Fargo for his house, Ford for his car, Verizon for his internet connection, Seagate, ASUS, Microsoft, and Intel for his computer, Starbucks for his job, and upon so many more different companies for so many different things, only less than a handful of which are necessary for him to live.

Why does Timmy do this to himself?

Why does Timmy compete with his neighbors to see who can get the fastest car? Only the car manufacturer can benefit. Perhaps his neighbor works for Ford, and keeps tricking Timmy into buying more expensive vehicles.

Why does Timmy pay for the highest connection speed? What difference is it that the web page loads thirty seconds faster?

Why does Timmy drive so fast on the highway? Is his destination that important, that he has to reach it five minutes sooner?

Why did Timmy pay five hundred thousand for a house that only he will live in?

 

Someone please tell me. Please. Please tell me from where this ingrained notion of competition originates, where the idea comes from that if you’re not more successful than your neighbor, then you’re a failure.

Can’t we all just chill out?

“Every Night”

“H-hello,” he muttered, under his breath. Salivation dripped from his lip corners. “I’m h-here for the job application.”

“Hokey dokey,” the innkeeper said. Hands twitched rhythmically before his blood-stained apron. “Sign here, welcome to my inn. It’s called Meat Palace.”

“You serve a lot of meat h-here?” the applicant whispered beneath spit-stained whiskers. “I like to eat meat.”

The innkeeper nodded, kicked back a chair, and begged the man have a seat. “Won’t you tell me about yourself? I do like to hear of people. You know, on the outside.”

“The outside? What do you mean?”

“Well, I haven’t left the Meat Palace in twenty some years.” The innkeeper leaned forward, grinned, and twisted the point of a knife into the wooden table. “I don’t like to leave.”

“Why not? It’s actually quite nice in most places. H-hector’s square is cool place. There’s a statue and a fountain.”

The innkeeper slid his chair back and frowned. He stood and coughed into his bloody, meaty fist. The fist slammed on the table and a shout of, “WANT TO EAT SOME DINNER?!” rang out.

“I like dinner.”

“You’ll have to fetch things for me. Feed my horses, and those of my guests. Your room and board are of course covered by me, and you’ll receive ten silvers a month.”

“Okay.”

The innkeeper sat down and gradually thought over his plans. “The basement will have to be cleaned.” His eyes became dark and bored holes into the rotted wooden table. “Every night.” The blade slipped off its tip and split a line. “Every night.”

Jenkins! Get in Here!

Jenkins sat in his cube, staring at the clock staring into his eyes, wondering what happened with the time once it was spent up and used. It was probably thrown out for another universe or version of him to do with it what all entities will do: Waste it.

“Jenkins!” his boss shouted. Jenkins couldn’t see his boss with his eye, but saw him with his mind, with his read face and sweaty forehead. “Is that report ready, yet?!”

“No,” Jenkins replied, staring at the clock and twiddling a pen between his fingers. “I, uh, still have a couple changes to make.”

“What?! What fucking changes?!” His boss pounded on the cube wall, but still failed to present himself visually. “My ass is on the line here! That means….that YOUR ass is…” Time passed, and his boss seemed to become unsure of himself. The normally booming voice now sputtered and hesitated. “…on the line, too. Okay? Got that?”

“Okay, but. I think, like, we could work together. On like, the report? Maybe.”

“May…maybe! May is…that’s, uh, that’s okay. Yeah, okay.”

“Okay.”

the bingman is hate

Jim Bean was never a bad guy.

He was a bingman. Do you know what a bingman is?

A bingman is is a person who likes to eat pie. What is a person who likes to eat pie?

A person who likes to eat pie is a bingman is and Jim Bean is a bingman is is a person who likes to eat pie.

Where do you stand on this issue? What is the issue? The issue is the bingman is. What to do with him? Shall we put him in the corner? Have his friends get all together, and talk about him as he sits in his cage? They can all discuss how sad it is that he must live there, forsaken as he is by the people of his society.

Oh! Oh! Then we may gather his enemies, everyone whom he has hated most throughout his life, everyone who has wronged him in some way, and get all of them together and have them point and laugh at the bingman is in his cage. They can eat pie, too. That might really put him in his own, desperate place where even the evil spirits refuse to roam.

Who are the evil spirits? They are the ones who the ones that the bingman is hates hates the most. Who does the bingman is hate hate the most? The bingman is hate hates the evil spirits the most because the bingman is hate does not like pie. In fact, he likes to watch pie burn in his back yard on a pile of small twigs, intertwined with poison ivy and hate.

Then he goes inside, back to his corner, back to the wall, back to that same dreary place that he knows as his sad, lonely home. The spiders and the dust shall crawl over his skin, until the museum curators thousands of years from now study his mummified form.

The Forest

They sat by the edge of the forest, smoking their cigarettes and thinking about the wind that whispered. The sun had set, the moon had risen, and two red dots were the only marks that an outside observer may have seen. The grass rustled with each passing breath of air.

“You hear it?”

“Yeah.”

“It says it’s time. The forest is waiting for us. Too long and it’ll be another two years before we can try again.”

“I know. Ready?”

“You need to take this seriously.”

Die with the wind and the rustles of the moon the shaking of the earth. Twist and burn and turn and go around again and in out back when the wind dies. 

I do.”

“Let’s go.”

Moss covered the stone temple in the forest. Vines stretched vast distances, yawning in their weight. A green light cast a strange glow upon the forest, from whence the pair came.

“I don’t believe it! It’s the temple! It’s actually here!”

“I see it.”

“Can you understand what this means? All the power, anything we want, here! It’s here! ALL OF IT!”

“Power. Yeah.”

Orb is the ring the death that stretches the limb the tree falls on the ground. Ever after its leaves dwindle and smoke and binding pain brings the dim light glowing orb. 

“GIVE IT TO ME! ALL OF IT! ALL OF THE ULTIMATE POWER!”

The mind of this one ripped open and exploded into the universe. Its essence mingled with the stars and the dust between, causing a gravitational shift that extended the Earth’s year by exactly two days and ninety six minutes. All remember the mind.

“Dude.”

The Waterfall

The water fell two hundred feet before striking the surface of the lake below. A man stood on top of the cliff, next to the river, and laughed. His line dangled from his fishing rod, and the form of the great Shimbaru swam at the foot of the waterfall.

“You can’t resist my bait!” The old man said, hair whisking wildly with the wind. “It is your fate!” For he had found the seventh crystal of the Lost Princess Xanthia. “See how long you can wait!”

Shimbaru stared the old man down. The crystal flashed all the colors of the world in a single moment of time. His eyes could not resist its power, and his belly grew larger with each passing second.

“Eat it! Eat it!” The wind scoured the man’s voice, so that Shimbaru only barely heard this taunt.

The mind of the fish lay elsewhere, on the crystal and the power it contained. The power to dominate men and subdue entire worlds. It was only one bite away. Surely he could snap the line and escape the old man’s hook.

“That’s it!” The man set the hook and reeled the fish in, larger than any other one that he had ever seen in his long life. “Yes!”

Shimbaru shuttered and sputtered for water. The crystal needed water to activate and achieve its full potential. His gills slowly stopped moving.

“I’m gonna have dinner for weeks!” The old man said. Just as he was netting Shimbaru, the fish gave one last flop, and dashed into the water. The man followed, unable to let go of the rod in time.

“Now is the time of my victory!” Shimbaru shouted upon landing in the water and feeding on the old man’s corpse. “Victory! VICTORY!”

Filmore Johnson at the Microwave Championships of Golden Fun Time

Filmore Johnson entered the arena to the sound of fans crushing the stadium floor. His arms were raised high, his eyes were dead set on his opponent, and his plate of leftovers rested on his strapped-on tray. Today was finally the day that he would prove himself in the Microwave Championships of Golden Fun Time.

“Johnson, place your tray!” the ref shouted at the top of his lungs. Still, his voice was barely audible above the screams of the crowds. “Set! GO!!!”

Filmore barely took time to look at his own work. His eyes darted left, now right, now up and down, and his hands became wild things that moved of their own accord. Soon his plate was ready. He set the microwave for one minute and thirty two seconds. Precision was as much of an art as the actual arrangement.

The crowd was ecstatic.

“Peas ON TOP of the mashed potatoes,” the announcer blurted into his mic. “We haven’t seen that kind of action since the days of Judy Moore! Look at the daring manner in which he sliced the Salisbury steak! The amazing, even astonishing decision not to use ALL of the shredded cheese! Let’s hope that’s intentional, folks!”

The microwave, after aeons collapsed into each other forming new universes as the clock forms seconds, finally beeped. Filmore brought his tray to the judges. One of them passed out after the first bite. The second went into a strange, ecstatic daze. The third flatlined as the tendrils of deliciousness reached down his esophagus and into his stomach.

“AMAZING!” the announcer shouted. “AMAZING! NOT ONE JUDGE LEFT STANDING! HE WINS! FILMORE WINS! FILMORE JOHNSON!!!”

Filmore bowed out with respect, as the paramedics rushed to the stage.