Wednesday, September 21, 2011

My yearly post

You know how I've gone hunting every year, for quite some time? We generally go muzzleloading, but sometimes we go archery? Well, this year we...
DIDN'T GO! What?! It's because my parents didn't think it was worth it for me drive all the way back. That's pretty much code for "we don't want to see you," or something.

Instead, during the weekend we normally go to the Scottish highland festival and go hunting, I was being rained out of a soccer game. The one that we drove to Springfield for. The one 7 hours away. That we got to, and found out it was cancelled. Then drove seven hours back for. So, you know. Really good time. Pretty amazing.

Almost as good as hunting.



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Sunday, June 12, 2011

PLANE CRASH

“Mr. Donaldson, it’s nice to see you again. How have you been?”
“I’m doing well enough - I think you’ll find I’ve lost a few pounds since my last checkup.”
“That’s good to hear. I take it that you get to the gym a little more often, like I suggested last year?”
“Yes, sir, I have, mostly thanks to my wife. She’s been nagging me about it ever since I turned 40.”
Dr. Clark chuckled. “I know what you mean. My wife’s been on my case for years, trying to get me to eat healthy. Seems to think it’ll make me live longer. I told her I would eat as much as I want, I already know how I’m gonna go.”
Frank Donaldson gave the doctor a quizzical look. Noticing this, the doctor wearily pulled a slip of paper about the size of a dollar bill out of his wallet. He handed it to Frank. The slip of paper had two large, bold words written on it.
“PLANE CRASH,” Frank read aloud.
“A couple of months ago, someone donated a Machine of Death to the hospital,” the doctor explained. “Our plan was to use it on the terminally ill, to see if they had any chance of recovery. For example, if we had a burn victim whose cause of death was going to be FIRE, and he reached the point of no return, we could notify his family. Similarly, if his cause of death was going to be DROWNING or something like that, then we knew he would survive.
“It was a good plan. A few of the doctors, myself included, tested it beforehand. That’s where I got this slip.” The doctor paused for a minute. “I wish I hadn’t done it now. I was supposed to go to D.C. for a conference last week, but the hospital sent someone else instead... I’m grounded, literally, and somehow it’ll still be a plane crash that kills me.”
There was a long silence between the two men, until Frank asked, “How can you be so sure that the machine is right? What if you die some other way?”
The doctor shook his head. “Nope, it’s been verified. We used it on a few dying patients, and we got exactly what you would expect: CANCER, HEART ATTACK, etcetera. For some people, knowing how they’re going to die gives them peace of mind. I don’t understand it.”
Frank wasn’t sure that the doctor was looking at it the right way. “Still, it’s got to be better than not knowing, right? You said it yourself, it can give your family the opportunity to prepare.”
The doctor switched back into professional mode. “If you’d like to take the test yourself, you need to fill out a consent form. The procedure requires a small blood sample, which I can take at the end of your checkup.” It was clear to Frank that the doctor wasn’t going to change his opinion, and that their conversation on the subject was over.
“Yes, I think I’d like that.”
The checkup proceeded as normal, with neither man speaking about the machine again.
At the end of the checkup, Dr. Clark handed Frank the medical release form. “We used to be able to perform the test without the patient’s consent, or the consent of their family, until recently.” Dr. Clark’s expression was vacant, as if he were lost in thought. Frank saw the look on the doctor’s face, and decided against asking about what happened to change the hospital’s policy.
Frank read through the form carefully, signed it and gave it back to the doctor. The doctor withdrew a vial and a syringe from his lab coat and proceeded to take a small blood sample from Frank’s left arm. “I’ll be back in about five minutes with your results, so just sit tight.” Dr. Clark’s face tightened into an odd sort of forced grin, and he took the vial of blood with him out of the room.
Frank was left alone with his thoughts for the first time since the checkup began, and he started to worry. Have I made a mistake? he asked himself. I figure it’s probably just going to be HEART FAILURE or OLD AGE or something like that, but what if it’s not? What if it’s something I can’t give up? Even if I try to change my lifestyle, this prediction’s set in stone. Might as well enjoy what life I have left, right?
Dr. Clark had been gone for only two minutes when he returned, looking clearly distraught. “Mr. Donaldson, there’s been an issue with the machine. Er, well, it’s technically correct... You’d better have a look for yourself.” The doctor handed Frank a slip of folded paper like the one Dr. Clark carried in his wallet. Frank, hands shaking, took the paper and unfolded it like he’d done before.
“DEATH?” Frank read, puzzled. “Is this some sort of joke?”
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Monday, April 4, 2011

tonight

this is the end; we've been found out

good night

forever Read the full article.

Saturday, January 22, 2011

GET SOME

BISHOP IS GOIN' ON A DATE, HELL YEAH

GET SOME BROSKI Read the full article.

Monday, January 3, 2011

Gilmore girls

In a similar story....


I am trying something called dymaxian sleep. It's amazing.

So great.

James, it was not immature to try and punch everyone who left the basement. Plus, it's not even true. I didn't try to punch everyone who left the basement. Just the males. and I succeeded in punching all the males who tried to leave the basement. For the record.

This one time I was calling out for help, screaming in pain. Good times.

I don't have anything useful to say. This feels like everything else I write as of recently.

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subject: post

I endeavor to post here more often just to piss off our site's worthy Administrator, a man with split personalities and testes.

Today I went to Jimmy's house. I only left my house because Megan (my brother's girlfriend (?)) came over and occupied my usual spot of laziness and debauchery - that is to say, the couch. And she only did that because her sister's boyfriend (???) came over to HER house, making HER want to leave. And, as I understand, Bloomster effectively forced Jimmy's sister to go to their neighbor's house for the night because he and the 16-year-old are not to be trusted together (technically, statch, but whatever).

What I'm trying to say is, I was simply a cog in a much larger machine of interpersonal relationships. Ah, humor. I explained the unfunny joke, and now, you, the reader, are saying "But I understood the premise. It wasn't even a funny premise. I don't understand why James keeps posting on this blog. He's not even funny - in fact, it kind of annoys me when he talks, now, actually." For you, dear reader, I only have this t PENIS. PENIS PENIS PENIS. Are you laughing yet? Oh, it's hopeless.

Also, something about that house makes everyone inside it act like a four-year-old. For example, Matt tried to punch anyone who left the basement. Any harder, and he might have dislocated my nerdy, fragile shoulder. And New Super Mario Bros. - oh, the agony. Jimmy is a douche - we'll leave it at that. No we won't. What kind of bitch leaves three people in bubbles while he dashes along at the front of the screen, only to be killed by a koopa or piranha plant or goomba? Jimmy fucking Hall, that's what kind of bitch would do that kind of thing. I mean, we're all guilty of the sin, but we don't do it repeatedly after being told to stop.

Man, the way I phrased that is bad. "Officer, I told him not to..."

Anyways, that was my day. Minus going on a pizza adventure (not as delicious as it sounds) and putting drywall up as a ceiling (dryceiling?) in a basement (dryfloor?). How exciting! Look forward to further posts with the same comedic timing and intellectual rigor.

That is to say, more rambling, two-in-the-morning, James you're not funny and stop trying posts.
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Saturday, January 1, 2011

A rebuttal

Fuck you guys.
It's officially 2011 everywhere (fuck you Hawaii) and that's actually pronounced 20-11.
I promised myself that 2010 (pronounced 20-10) would be awesome (read: I'd be in a relationship) but it ended up being a bit more adult. This blog started from a desire to be comedic, and it's been largely juvenile. I take some responsibility for that.
We've grown apart (as Shafo has written) and we're not stricken by the same strokes of genius we once were (2008, pronounced "two-thousand-and-eight"). We've moved into a different range of the emotional spectrum. If that means less Wisecrack Express, so be it (read: it does).
Personally, I'm proud of the strides we've made out of this box. I'll keep a part of this site deep in my heart, somewhere around the lower part of my left ventricle.

I also promise a new Dave the Reaper some time before July 2014. Read the full article.