Just remembered this one from my customer service days.
Due to a refunding error, you now have !!!!! FIVE !!!!! extra dollar$ to spend. Here are some creativeways to do so:
- Invest it in the riskiest mutual fund at Charles Schwab, wait for it to grow to $200,000, and buy a ticket to space with Virgin Galactic. - Buy a $10 carnitas burrito, eat half, and see if you can exchange the other half for chicken. When they say no, ask for a $5 refund. - Invest it in the *CLOTHING BRAND* Corduroy Fund, which works hard to preserve only the finest in men’s apparel.
If none of these ideas suit you, I’m sure your significant other can think of some ways you can spend it on them.
Fourth Installment in a Trilogy of Mostly Pointless and Unconnected Short Stories
I’m the fourth installment in a trilogy of mostly pointless and unconnected short stories. Yes, the fourth. In a trilogy. It doesn’t make sense in your world, but this is the precise point in which my beauty lies. I’m the fourth part of a three-part story simply because I say I am and there’s not a damn thing anybody can do to change that. My world is not like yours. I’m a piece of fiction.
I’m the sole inhabitant of this world; I only allow you to come and visit. Stop in, take a look around, stay for a while if you’d like. Enjoy the adventure resting upon the backs of my hard consonants, take breaks in the tenderness of my smooth vowels. Find solace in my familiarities, but also find excitement in my novelties. I offer myself to you the way true Christians offer themselves to the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, the same way true Muslims offer themselves to Allah: wholly, undoubtedly, and for the sole purpose of pleasing you. The tragic reality is that you must eventually return to your logical, sensible world. But forget about that for now. For now, you’re with me.
Many people assume that the author created me. In my case, it was a collective effort. My creation involved some introspective thoughts produced by the author, but those thoughts collaborated with my own pace and various moods. I played a hand in creating myself. I also played my part in creating the author, and I am now the eternal existence of his thoughts. The author has already moved on, perhaps writing other works. I am the only thing left behind. I am the one waiting for you to shed your layers and join me for a skinny dip.
A Series of Mostly Pointless and Unconnected Short Stories, Part 3
I guess this is the last part of what will be a trilogy until I write my next story. I wanted to make this one exceptionally good, but then I realized that third installments of trilogies are never any good. And it won’t even be a trilogy once I write another story, so who cares? This is all I’ve got for you.
It was a Tuesday. Or maybe it was a Wednesday, or a Monday or a Thursday or Friday. I don’t know, does it really fucking matter? All I know is that I felt good that day. Good enough to ask the cute girl in line at Starfucks to go out with me. I never feel good enough to ask the cute girl in line at Starfucks, Chichokle, McDogfood’s, Hick-fil-a or Heistcastle to go out with me.
The words exited my mouth in the same manner as semi-recycled food does: at a high velocity, accompanied by a foul odor and <whatever a good antonym for graciously might be>. Feel free to use whichever one you prefer.
As soon as the first of that sequence of words barely passing for a sentence left my territory, flying through interpersonal airspace, I saw exactly what was going on. She immediately activated her conversational equivalent of the Patriot Missile Defense System. However, it seemed that her system had not been upgraded since the Gulf War - a system which George Bush claimed to be 97% successful, but according to other analysts was only 10% successful. My attempt was pretty lucky to be one in ten.
I woke up in the kitchen this morning. I fell asleep in my normal space, about 3 feet above the old couch (which is now anchored to the ground). I used to enjoy moving it around every few months, changing the living room setup. Next to the wall, maybe a few inches back, move the coffee table over a bit. I don’t do that anymore. I guess it’s just too much of a hassle to unbolt and rebolt. Plus, it leaves ugly holes in the hardwood floors. I’m really not even sure why I have the couch anymore. It serves no purpose now that gravity isn’t there to force my body into that part of the cushion with an indent outlining the shape of my elephantine body. I guess I just keep it around to remind me of those crumb-laden Sundays when big G made it so easy to lay around and watch football all day. Football’s a thing of the past too. I remember the Sunday when every game in play suddenly became Mile High.
In my drunken state, I must have forgotten to plug my phone in. In the old days this would have been an issue simply because I can’t start my day at 39%. However, this error now poses more serious problems as the phone can end up in any part of the house when not tethered by the power cord. How am I supposed to hear my alarm when the phone’s bouncing around the bathroom like a pinball? My boss doesn’t care. She’s a bitch.
I think a gust of wind came through the house last night, sending me to the kitchen and the phone hurtling into the wall. Another broken screen, fuck. At least I don’t have to worry about dropping it anymore. Maybe I should get one of those anchored alarm clocks. My grandpa has one. He really liked programming all of his personal settings into it. He tells me about it every time I visit.
Sex sans gravity has its pros and cons. With gravity around I never could have held my girlfriend against the ceiling while wedging myself in between the wall & armoire for support, then thrusting away. It may not sound like all that, but the abundance of new, interesting positions has supposedly saved many lackluster relationships. My biggest complaint is that it’s difficult to find traction. Some local businesses have started running hourly, gravitized hotels, which are highly controversial. I don’t mind them.
We lost 32 more yesterday. When this whole climate change thing first became apparent, the government set up the Citizens’ Antigravital Protection Program to collect floaters and safely bring them back to earth. But some are bound to fall (an obsolete word) through the cracks. People like my uncle John criticize the government for this, but I know they can’t possibly cover our entire airspace. God damn, he ruined Thanksgiving with his incessant complaining about how they should have saved Marge. Whatever though, she shouldn’t have been riding around in her fancy new convertible aircar without a seatbelt on. Fucking moron. Just flew right out. The people I really feel bad for are the third world countries that can’t afford CAPPs. Those are real survivors, not pussies like us Americans. They don’t rely on the government to save their stupid asses when they go for late night, marijuana-induced McDonalds runs without properly securing themselves. RIP Jim, Alex, and Tarik.
There’s a push to build a net that would cover the entire city, protecting us all from the possibility of drifting out of the atmosphere and exploding. Or whatever actually happens. Somebody told me that was a myth. I’m against the net proposal, mostly because it would be ugly. And as a Darwinist, I kind of like the idea of weeding out the idiots who can’t just remember to lock the bindings on their tethers. Every time I hear one of these stories I think, ‘One less idiot to propel themselves too fast down the produce aisle and send my tomatoes flying into the deli counter.’
“Lost” character Hurley claims real tragedy was being trapped on show, not island
In a completely bullshit interview with nonexistent reporters, the character stated that “really, the island itself wasn’t so bad. I could have stayed there and been fine had it not been for those pesky writers.”
Hurley also described the plot as “directionless” and “intrusive” in relation to his time spent on the island.
No writers of the series were available for comment.
