Rhon Dar Especial

"Mmm, doesn't that look good? Gimme some of that..." So he ladled some broccoli florets into the frying pan and the creamy yellow shit started to simmer. Nestled in the village of butryic acid and its northwest environs, I noticed that Felippa hadn't greased her hair up today, I think I'll tell her to "have a good day" on the days where she doesn't slick that shit. "Hi, buttered bagel, thanks, have a nice day." Shit, "nice?" That's what I come up with, argh, I planned it. Smiling fine, suddenly, I feel your oily skin, oh holy uprights, maxillary performance to a leather cushion near you.

Sadly, we awoke in a communal sit-up across the city. In other cities, people slept in their DeMarcus Ware jerseys thinking, "we were a very vanilla team out there, if he runs through the ball, we win." Here's who comes out the best for the boys: Jason Witten, flak-free, got to hang with Jessica. Legendary quote from a literate fan: "Who's Jessica Simpson? Is that the bitch O.J. killed?"

"I've been looking for women at the grocery stores, but I never expected to meet one at the polls." Riveting. "Tom Brady and Giselle, locking lips at Nobu, the new Morimoto joint" "Hey didn't he have a game that weekend?" Actually Morimoto has nothing to do with Nobu Next Door, and Giselle has a last name, Cart. You are despicable and your partner is a choke artist. "And now the Cowboys are headed for vacation, even though their quarterback got a head start."

Gallop, whoo ha look at all this sawgrass, how much you think there is? The tall (6'4") Cowboy took off his hat and said, "39% switchgrass, 28% sawgrass, 23% bahiagrass, 10% ryegrass, with a 5% margin of error." I mean, "hats off to us, ya know?" I know Randy, I know. Oh Nick in Huntington, what are you talking about man, Terry Glenn? "It's simply not my style" - interrupt, here's how Chris would've played it: "Listen, Jessica, we'll go down there February 4, T.O.'s treat." T.O. can't be into that kinna girl can he? Yes.

Left hand to the doorhandle, rotate wrist clockwise, the latch retreats, pull the handle towards yourself to open the door. Darkness floods the hall, except for a strip of light under the curtained doorway. Poor soul, burning the midnight oil again. Maybe I'll learn all about grass, and switchgrass, and wonton soup. It would be useful to commemorate this nondescript Monday in a way that is both dignified and entertaining. But let's shoot straight, cowboy. Utilitarian writings, not my style (whimper whimper tear tear).

Maybe I'll look up corn starch. Oh one more thing to add about the whole doorknob issue: I have pretty dexterous hands for a non-amylophagic technician. Maybe I'll look up corn starch, see what it's all about: apparently it can also be used for making highly flammable and explosive jellies. All the food of the day has been devastating for my tired soul. I need to start eating healthy, no more pasta. As soon as you use a word like pasta no one takes you seriously. It comes off like a lamely-contrived colloquialism. You know, this dude's tryin' it. He throws in the ethnic word, look his writing is so grassroots, I can get behind that. I can stand tall behind that. We're solid sometimes but liquid other times. We thrive on an underabundance of heat.

All day, without her, my beautiful Maria. Wise man in the alley says real raspy: "Ohhh, son, focus focus, retrain your brain like Chris Kaman." So I say, "this morning I started getting bored with the New York Times columnists soI tried out some other ones, stumbling finally upon Cynthia Tucker, who writes clearly. Why do shitty writers get shitty copy editors? We'll come gunnin' down the sidestreets when we come, we'll be gunnin' down the sidestreets, we'll be gunnin' down the sidestreets, we'll be gunnin' down the sidestreets when. We. Come."

The wise man in the alley stoped paying attention when I repeated the same thing over and over again and he knew how it would end. I understand where he's coming from, it's difficult to stay focused on something that is really repetitive for the sake of getting to a long foreseen conclusion. It's like being a landscaper, you mow the lawn you trim the hedges, and what's on your mind? Nothing, or at least, nothing for long. The repetition consumes everything and you can't think of an escape plan. That's insensitive. You're insensitive, always pickin' apart my shit. You try it, you try trance jobs and then you try getting out.

"Wow..." What is going through these people's heads? A reply-to-all, ferociously lame comment. Do you have any idea the last time calling out your own indifference to bureaucratic correspondence got a laugh, a smile, or anything but unmitigated disdain? The pain! Maybe this is how Willy works the ladies. Maybe he leans his meaninglessly-toned frame back against some midtown booth and has the world he covets wrapped around his dork-ass fingers. He goes home and subconsciously reinforces his behavior because of the rabid self-assurance that some petty courtesy smiles have earned him. He might even do a few pushups, maybe take his shirt off and do something faux-gangster with his hands in the mirror. Maybe he'll cross the line and realize to himself that he should tone it down, and even in that moment of retreat, a tool survives, multiplies and thrives.

I am suggesting it's genetic. Yes, like an affinity for sesame oil or something. If I were Wikipedia, and I'm not, I would throw together a GUI team and work on something portable, extremely user-friendly, and highly derivative of the primary-colored bullshit that sells today, and sell it. Imagine Wikipedia in ten years, it's borderline scary, you know? If we don't equip humans with the ability to easily access Wikipedia at any moment, some hacker-type will develop a robot armed with the knowledge of Wikipedia, and deploy it in the American midwest. I thought a lot about children this weekend, it's going to be essential to have some kind of portable Wikipedia access. I won't have kids without it.

Oh here we have it, after seven and a half hours - an insider look. I've been flooded with clarity and the desire to perform at a high level. Cha cha cha. Maybe I should learn this stupid stuff, after all, it's the biggest market on earth, and assuming we make contact with intelligent life outside Earth, what do you think, don't be a jerk, will be the first thing we'll set up? Obviously, some kind of marketplace. Now, what could be more useful when talking to actual aliens, besides some kind of proper indentification system, than knowledge of Earth's largest marketplace, one that requires knowledge of ancient bartering systems and the Bretton-Woods agreement.

"If Tom Brady's the Golden Boy, Antonio, what's Brett Favre?" Without skipping a beat, "GOAT." "Oh well, that's right, he is a bit of a goat..." "No, no, man don't be confusing what I said, GOAT like, 'Greatest of All Time' not like on the farm." Gotta be up on that boys, that's been around the block.

Cynthia...no one knows your number, no one knows where you live. You walk down to the grocery store where none of the attendants cares about what you're purchasing, they just care about extraoccupational activities. See, that must have been beautiful, even "unremarkable" jobs were at least dignified. You had your little shop going, you know the customers, you say nasty stuff under your breath about new customers, and as difficult as it was to get up in the morning, there's a life, there's life-based interaction with people. You know their names they knows yours. Now everything is just a "Careers" link or a hookup. You know what? Metricize that, lifecycle that, stage that, test it throughout each lifecycle stage, tabulate the data and report it.

I really lost touch with my mathematical side once all those stupid Greek symbols got into the mix. Especially the capital E, you know, the sum sign. See other symbols just represent something, but the sum sign is a function with an exact prescription for variable inputs. What's most frustrating, of course, is the tendency to deviate from the conventions outlined in textbooks. So what happens? You try to figure out what the E thing means, you get the definition somewhere, and then no one does it like that. So you bootstrap, but you don't really get it. "It's a unique, Monique." Yeah and it cost me $850 so why don't you keep your dumb little jokes to yourself.