The disk space would probably be better utilized for cat gifs.

I find the idea of transferring a brain to a machine strange. When the technology becomes available, would many people really be clamoring  for it? I feel like there would have to be something pretty terrible happening to cause widespread use, like a super-plague wiping out a huncha-buncha people or something. I think people enjoy romping and other things they can do with a human body too much to make the switch. 
One thing I see as possible however is the use of the technology on the elderly. They would be shuffled in to a massive 'golden' array of computers in Florida. Of course then we'll have to visit them every once in a while, and it's just that the server room has a weird odor about it is all.

What are Frans™ for?

Let me let you in on one of the best kept secret of single mothers: Frans™ brand paste. I couldn’t possibly tell you every use this versatile wonder product is good for, but I will list among my personal favorites.

-Stained metal hangers? Frans™ it right out!

-An unlifted refrigerator? Raise the stakes with Frans™.

-Taking apart all of your plumbing? Frans™ in an iced tea keeps it cool.

-Have phantom ants? Put Frans™ in a baggie with some lemon juice and shake until frothy, then pour it around all your windows and doors.

-Wondering if you should have gone into textile importing? Put a dab of Frans™ on a cotton swab and gently clean around your nose with it.

-Road Trip? Frans™.

-Winding up an old music box that’s been passed down for generations? Speed up the process with a bit of Frans™!

-Bisquick boring your kids? Make Francakes™!

-Telephone bill too pricey? Replace your home phone service for only $19.95 a year with Frans™.

-Going to leave your life behind and need to fake your own death in a convincing way? Frans™ in the freezer overnight creates the perfect body double for your 'car into the ravine' scheme.

These are just a few of the ways that I use Frans™ brand paste everyday. I encourage you, as one single mother to another, Go pick up a pack of Frans™ brand paste from your local grocer, hardware chain or furniture shop!

 About the Author:

Melony Greene is a Mother, Crafter and Editorialist for the Statesboro Sun 'Around the House' Column.

Fran™ brand paste is a product of Franco industries and should only be used for the purpose of adhering light items to your walls and should not be used for the proceeding or the following activities; pet maintenance, heating and uncooling, grill based experimentation, number crunching, water sking, entertaining, bootlegging, crawfishing or recycling in the states of NY, NJ, MN, CA and WA. Franco industries is not liable for any criminal charges brought against you for the misuse of Fran™ or Diet Fran™ brand paste. © 2011 Franco industries Jillbe, CA.

Behind Blurred Eyes

A dear friend of mine was mangled this past weekend, and I did it to them. As I was horsing around on my couch, attempting to become an airplane, I came down on he with a heavy elbow. His left arm snapped off without much fanfare, but he was rendered useless in a single moment. We've had our moments of trouble in the past, a loose screw here, a missing lens there, but this time the damage was irreversible. My  beloved pair of glasses is no more. Though they toughed it out with a splint made from a match and some blue tape on the drive back to Atlanta, I feel a retirement is necessarily to save us both the embarrassment and shame.

I would now like to say some kind words in memorandum of my glasses:

-Their large lenses provided a mostly frame free viewing angle of some of my favorite things like birds and movie screens.

-They were assembled in China, making them more traveled than I.

-Though the lenses were often smudged with greasy fingerprints, they never complained.

-They turned in to sunglasses in the daylight, even if I didn't want or ask them to.

At this point if you wish, I implore you to click this media file and take a few moments to look deeply into the glasses and remember a point in which they made you smile. Please do not look into my eyes though.

The Turner Classic

The Turner turned to see who had let forth the shrill scream; an old lady dangled helplessly from a windowsill. “Hang on miss, I’m coming right up!” the turner yelled upwards as he raced for the door of the high rise apartment complex. The Turner usually  took the stairs,  as it was the only time he could take a turn every 12 steps and still go in a consistent direction, but time was of the essence, so he took the elevator. The Turner was pleasantly surprised when the door opened up behind him as it stopped at its destination. A straight hallway stood before him. A scream echoed from the last door on the left. “Miss! Grab hold of my hand!” the Turner yelled to the dangling elder. “Though first, I must know” he paused, pulling his outreached hand back slightly “What was the color of your last bowel movement?” “WhaAAat?” she responded. “The color madam, was it more of a caramel brown or a sandy green?” At that moment the woman lost her grip. She plummeted, splattering on the concrete below.

The Turner looked down for a while at the gathering crowd before proceededing to the deceased’s bathroom to see if he could scrounge up some evidence. As he sat on her raised toilet seat cover he pictured the woman pulling her drawers down and squatting over the hole clenching her bottom. The Turner closed his eyes as his hand slid down his skintight suit. At that moment there was a knock on the door, The Turner had to think fast. “Sir, what in the hell are you doing” the officer said upon seeing the spandexed man standing in drag before him. “I’m just finishing up here officer.”

Down at the station The Turner looks through the bars of his cell. He had already rotated 2880 degrees and had gleaned all of the subtleties of his constrained space. He could hear all of the screams in front of him, though he wasn’t worried in the least about those but rather, the ones that came from behind him, which were giving him goose-bumps.”THEY NEED MY HELP” he screamed, clenching the vertical metal bars. “you know officer, I’ve noticed you’re walking a little funny . How many bowel movements have you had in the last 24 hours?” he whispered.

[X] Must Award

                 A drum of mustard, a vat of mustard, a Scrooge McDuck-esque room of mustard. A wise man once said that one could never have enough mustard, and I'd have to agree. On a hot summer day, many a dog beats the heat by slathering themselves with the spicy sauce. Mustard is a sibling of Mayonnaise, though they are not on speaking terms after the messy legal battle over the terms of their father’s will. Jake is looking like he is having trouble following the presentation, he must be hard of hearing. Did I ever tell you kids about the great mustard famine of 2006? It was terrible, pickles on pastrami terrible. Mustard makes up over 43 percent of our daily recommended diet. If you are having trouble getting the cap off of a mustard jar, just be short with it and the mustard will usually bend to your will. Speaking of will, I heard that Mustard has been leaving messages on Mayonnaise's machine to the tune of "You enjoying fathers sitting chair? Well enjoy it while you can!" 

                 At the dawn of time there were three things; tubes, crescents and mustard. Mustard likes downloading movies using torrents, but it rarely keeps the file active to share with other users. Mustard regularly gives its old shirts to the Goodwill center down on 32nd and Three-pine, but I saw him shoplifting there just the other day. When I was a boy, my father dreamed that one day I would grow up and become a successful mustardpreneur. A vigorous session of ‘Kick-bow’ is a good way to work up a good thirst for mustard. “Mustard, Grab a tube and squeeze it into your mouth”. “Mustard, better than you might imagine it”. The only reason that Milk isn't mustard is because it wasn't ambitious enough. Jenny. Jenny listen closely, I need for you to take off that necklace, Jenny. Rhinos use their tails in surprising new ways on a daily basis, thanks to their generous sponsors, Mustard Co. Mustard takes its life one day at a time since the accident. What a brave boy you’re being Jenny, I'm so proud of you. Before trying down the final design of his new invention, ‘the pillow’, William Sir Billiby attempted to fill his sack with mustard. Will the desire to survive outshine the desire to smear mustard and hot fudge onto a sundae? A wise man must know. Surely he must know.

'Green Shirts and Lion Cakes'

today is my birthday, i am 7 years old today. my mom said that tonigh we would go and pick out a cake from 

the food lion and that i could get whatever color icing i wanted. i pick out my greenist shirt from my dresser drawer because it is my favorite color and i feel like a ninja turtle with it on. for fun i desided that i would take a thing from my room to school today since it is my birthday and all. so i choose my baseball bat but my mom told me that i couldnt even on my own 7th birthday but maybe on my 8th one? i didnt know what else i could bring that would make me as happy as my bat, so i chose the funny framed future box. on the way out the door my mom told me to be careful of the time space conundrum but i didnt know what she ment. i noded and she kissed me good by.

on the bus stinky aron sat down next to me but since it is my birthday i didnt say anything mean to him like that he smelled like a elefents butt and that his hair looked like spageti sause was dried in it. during recess i took out my magic future frame and looked at todays picture, it was of a can of glitter. kelly and samantha came up to me and asked what i was holding and i told them that it was none of there dumb buisness! they ran to ms. julians and she made me show her the picture. after ms. julians saw the picture she told me not to be mean to kelly and samantha and she even made me apoligize on my birthday. at lunchtime ms julians called the class to the center of the room and announced that it was my birthday. i told everyone that i was seven and every sang me the birthday song.

 

 after lunch jonah and wren and kyle came up to me and started teasing me about being the birthday boy. i told them to shut up and kyle grabbed my backpack and they threw it arround. i told them to be careful but they didnt care and they dropped it. when i looked inside the frame was chipped on one corner. i was relly scared about the space time contraneum so i told the guys they were in real trouble and that i would tell my mom that they did it!

during arts and crafts i glued the chip down and it was good as new but then the glass in the back fell out and it broke on the floor into a million peices! suddenly everyone seemed to just disapper from the plane of reality and i just knew that i was in the biggest trouble. i was floating in the arts room and the math room at the same time and i saw my own meat floating outside of and around me. i felt as if i were never and allways. all i could see in the sky was a canister of glitter i suddenly felt sticky and sharp at the same time and the back of my head and gravity dripped down my leg. suddenly i saw me and i was blowing out the candles to my food lion cake and holding a baseball bat. i knew that it was me on my 8th birthday. i wish i were me at age 8. as i reached for a piece of my future cake i noticed that my 8 year old self was missing his eyes. i looked down at the color of my shirt and noticed that i had gone blind. all of existance ended on my 6th birthday. the end.

Like So Much Fruit.

    Day thirteen: We must be nearing land, as the cargo is just about ripened. Today I awoke to find that my eight legged roommates were back. If spiders weren't brainless survival machines they might hold it against me that I had days earlier squashed their forefathers against the dirty walls of the box. When I was a boy, Spiders were among the greater causes of concern. As time, passed those worries had to be focused on girls, getting a stable job in manual labor and eventually, my current journey. Why do they always go for the neck?

    Day fourteen: The clementines I ate today were sweet and juicy, which made them much more enjoyable on a scale that wasn't tainted by starvation. The spiders are a constant annoyance, as I wish they would feast on the nectar of the fruit rather than the nectar of me. There is a rash forming on my lower neck where I've suffered the most bites.

    Day sixteen: My neck continues to itch, but the crew's recent attitude leads me to believe that we are near our final destination. The number of seeds I've collected thus far: 18. The spiders have started behaving in a way most peculiar, as if they have come to revelation that on the other side of this boat ride, they will still be heavily persecuted and hated by all. They have been much more mellow and cautious, a quality in insects that I do not trust. Before, cornering one would lead to raised front legs, now they seem indifferent.

    Day seventeen: I remember the first day at my job picking clementines, how we were told that depending on the destination of the batch, we had to pick at varying levels of unripeness. Our biggest importers, Australia and Israel had vastly different picking schedules which caused lots of confusions, mix-ups and verbal/physical abuse from our superiors. The spiders are wedging themselves into nooks of the crate in a most unnerving way.

    Day eighteen: For the first time on the voyage, I worry that there might not be enough food for me to make it all the way; the thought scares the hell out of me so I try and put it in the back of my mind. Somehow the American folk song ‘Love Shack’ became stuck in my head and while it gives me some peace of mind, it wears thin quickly.

    Day nineteen: Small crate is a little old place where, I sit rationing fruit. Small crate baby. I am convinced that we’ve strayed off course along the way; I heard two of the crew members speaking ill of the captain’s competency. When I woke up this morning the spiders were all gone. I got me a seed, that makes about twenty so c'mon and bring the shore on honey.

    Night nineteen: I was jolted awake by a terrible shake, there is much yelling; I'm trying to hear what they're saying but the storm is making it difficult. Somehow I think that this might be a bad thing.

The boat is definitely not right side up anymore; as the remaining clementines have formed a pile in the corner. I don't know what else to do but write. The box is far too sturdy to kick open, so I suppose I can at least transcribe my last thoughts before I drown in a salty fruit cocktail. The screams of the crew has turned to a dreadful silence, with the only remaining sound that of rain on the metal hull.

Reality is cold and wet; the water is rising in my box. On the bright side, I learned that clementines float. I'm now writing upside down on the top of the crate, and I'm for the first time feeling that my space pen is being fully utilized. Water has reached my genitals (that's always the worst part). I hear sirens! Do they have those on naval boats? I hope whomever arrived likes citrus. I think it's time I stop writing, as yelling might be my best chance right now. If these are my final words, let the world know of them.

-Jamel Kibensteer.

'The Tiramiseur'

I was needed again, my pager alerted me of that much. I shaved, put on my shirt and headed out the door. On the way I grabbed my much needed tool which was on the threshold, leaning against my tasteful porcelain nymph lamp. The roads were mostly bare, save for a few unfortunate late night errand runners and drunks on tractors. I doubt they were heading into the same thing that I was at a brisk 55 miles per hour. 

By the time I arrived the bulk of the commotion had died out, the deer that inhabit the ranch were missing; only their fawn remained huddled as a mass inside of a large fiberglass castle like little spotted fuzzy goldfish. I went back to the car, popped the trunk, and grabbed my supply pale along with a warm diet mountain mist from my ineffective cooler. I popped the top on my refreshment and looked to the ground for clues on the direction my assignment, which knocked over fence posts and deer tracks revealed to be into the forest, wonderful.

There is little more in life I hate than the forest. It might be the lack of human tampering or the smell of rotten leaves and squirrel shit but it is not a place I would prefer to spend my Saturday mornings. I followed the trail for a good while, now following the growing noise to my in front of me. Through the trees and brush I could see a familiar blue light. When you’re in my line of work the scene was mundane, the deer carcasses that littered the pass ahead of me were of no surprise. I was surprised they had gotten this far really. The shrill evenly spaced bleeping sound the beacons let out halted as I drew near. Their blue color confirmed that my colleagues had been and gone already, and the threat neutralized. I took my instrument off my back and began the cleanup.

As I scooped up some twisted, charred deer arms, or I suppose on deer they're legs, I wished that I would be assigned an upgraded model of my Nitra-shovel. The new ones really have a just few more novel features but, if anything, a functioning giger-grip or a normalizing pack canister that wasn’t held on with electric tape would be nice. By now I was used to the smell of protein sapped meat, but it’s just the awful way the eyes continue staring into nothingness that makes me uneasy. It was getting light, so the light glow that the bodies let off was dimmed, but I mostly had a completed pile, my agency doesn’t mind the occasional left behind toe or earlobe, as long as the incident is secluded enough. I pushed the button on my pager and turned the blue signals on the incident beacon to white, signaling to my overseers that the work was done. I packed my supply pail up and headed back to my government Issued station wagon. One day I had hoped to meet someone else at my organization, but I suppose rules there for a reason and if the guys at top didn’t want us mingling beyond colored lights or comically arranged piles of livestock parts then so be it.  I headed back home for another six or so months of rest.

From the vaults, a memurendum of a chair from my past

My behind rests on a seating instrument that feels hard and looks red. There rests on the ground four wheels.  On my uneven floor, it rolls towards the air conditioning and heating unit if I let my feet up or my guard down. On carpet, the wheels spin less easily. Hair gets caught in the wheels over time, giving the it an anthropomorphic quality. The chair rotates around the base with a long connected track that spirals around the shaft of the mechanism that holds the chair up off the ground, a corresponding track on the inside allows for vertical movement. A counter clockwise turn brings the chair down, and a clockwise turn brings it back up to a level that I can more comfortably play the plastic drums on. At the highest setting (or sitting) the chair still does not go high enough for my feet to not touch the ground. The other day the chair let out a loud pop, but when I investigated I could notice no signs of damage.

A small hole exists in the back rear the near of the seat, designed to act as a window to the visually amusing butt-crack of the sittee. I often put both legs up onto the chair and assume a sort of squatting position, but this puts stress on the seating apparatus as a ring shaped area of lighter plastic suggests buckling from my great weight. The red plastic has an almost candy appled glossy texture and quality though slightly less sticky. The plastic piece of the raising and lowering mechanism loosened from the metal base over time, spinning alone no longer has the outcome of going up and down. Glue applied to the plastic would sufficiently secure the part back together, but for now holding the plastic to the metal will suffice. When tapped on, the chair creates an audible *thwang*.

One might wash the chair with window cleaner or similar solutions, but one might seem weird doing so. This chair does not have rests for ones arms, good for elbowing nearby sitters, but not looking important. My chair comfortably cradles my rear. Bought at IKEA Atlanta the Swedish crafted chair came unassembled. Not counting the wheels, there came only four parts to assemble: the seat, the shaft, the base and the base cross-section cover. If I put a price on my chair I would say thirty dollars.

-Alex Barrella January 28th 2009

On a sadder note, the chair ended up buckling under my weight and has been replaced with a blue model.

Take my coat please.

“It’s a terrible world where one is cold as soon as the air conditioner turns on, but hot as soon as it turns off. Though it is an equally terrible world with pants on“ Kevan thought  to himself as he sat in his bed. He hadn’t seen the sun today, but that was fine by him. He was worried about becoming too complacent in his glamorous lifestyle as the delivery man knocked on his front, and only, door.

As he browsed through the catalogs lining his walls, slurping chicken egg-drop soup from its plastic container, he took the pen out from behind his ear and began crossing out various ladies overcoats from the pages. Soon Kevan was left with 8 approved choices. He gave them last once-over and felt great satisfaction.

“Dial Burlington” he yelled sharply, his warm breath fluttering a few of the stapled catalog pages from their walls for a moment. “Phone” he said in an annoyed tone “DIAL BurlingTON”. 

He hurried across the room to his communication center, which consisted of a cardboard box with a range of outdated cell phones piled amongst a tangle of adapters, decommissioned television antennae and a gameboy with a single AAA battery in it.

The phone he was addressing had come lose from its lifeline, and stared back at him blankly with an oil smudged screen. It was as he refastened the phone to the charger that he lamented dropping his internet provider for raising his cable connection rate 5 dollars a month, but it was the principle of the manner and the feeling quickly passed.

“Hello yes I would like to place a order. Uh huh. Yes items: 2104, 2218, 2219, 3020, 3404, 3500, 3511 and 3580 size M. Yes mam, each in yellow. Mastercard. 2108733289894402. My address sould be on- that’s correct. Uh huh. Thank you. Yes thank you.”

He waited, as he always did, for the representative to hang up.  He carefully took down each page from the wall, separating them into two piles, and filed them away under ‘April 2011’. As he got back into his bed, his air conditioner came on, and quickly shut off, as it did every several minutes.