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The Department of Peace, 2100

Monday

"Morning, Bill.  Chamomile?"

"Nah, I'm jittery already."

"What's wrong?"

"I just keep worrying about Martinez.  He's out there in the field, all alone.  One false move and he's roadkill."

"He's a symbol of peace, Bill.  He knew that going in."

"I know, but damn it!  He's only two."

"If it makes you feel any better, that's twenty-six in dove years."

Tuesday

"As Lord Kucinich taught us, many years ago, if one wants to increase the peace, one must study war.  All wars.  History doesn't repeat itself, but it rhymes, and drops mad science on all our punk asses.  For example, the French and Indian War.  Could it happen again?  You bet it could.  If we let our guard down for a split second, we could be overrun by French fur traders wielding obscure but pointy cooking utensils faster than you can say Sacre bleu!  I'm serious, you will not have enough time to get to the bleu!  You might not even get through Sacre if you get hung up on rolling the R."

Wednesday

"Peace Department!  We have you surrounded.  Come out slowly and gently!

Put your hands on your heads!  That's right, easy does it . . . now put your arms around each other.  Do it!  Good, now on my mark, hug each other.  Now!

Hug it out, hug it out . . .

Now apologize to each other.  Sincerely.  You there, accept responsibility for your actions.  You, listen with an open heart.  Open your heart or I'll put a bullet through it.

Alright, you, by the sword, start beating it into a ploughshare.  And you with the spear, fashion it into a pruning hook.  I don't know what that is, either, but I'll know it when I see it.

The rest of you, circle up.  We're each going to say something we like about someone else.  I'll start:  I like how compliant you scumbags are.

I said, you can stop hugging now.  What?  No?  All right, when you're ready.  Bottle up those emotions, people, save some for later.  I'm gonna get some lunch.  Peace out."

Thursday

"And if you hold up your fingers like this, you get a peace sign.  Pay attention, class.  Although the peace sign is completely innocuous, if I rotate my hand around, like this --"

"I say, what was that, old chap?  That's rather cheeky of you."

"You see, I've just offended Reginald Thickletwist-Posthaste.  That's because in the U.K., this is an offensive gesture, like flipping the bird.  As you can see, the middle finger has no effect on Reginald."

"What's this now?  I rather enjoy it."

"Moving on, we have the pictorial peace sign, a circle with three lines, very popular in the 1960s and of course in modern times, a mandatory tattoo.  Mine is right here on the small of my back.   It has no effect on Americans, but when I display it, as you can see, Reginald begins salivating."

Friday

"Nice one, Bill.  I guess that's one warmonger who won't be mongering again!"

"Yeah, he went from a warmonger to a fearmonger when his fear was, um, that is, what I mean to say is that he looked scared when I shot him.  That one got away from me a little."

"You want to try again?"

"Can I?"

"It's just us and the body, pal."

"OK, this is a little long.  Here goes.

Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace . . . now that you're dead!" 

"Hey, that's pretty.  Did you write that?" 

"I wrote part of it just now.  You know, I really believe that if we just keep up the killing, we can achieve true, total peace.  Call me a dreamer."

"Well, then, you're a dreamer.  And a crack shot.  But for Kucinich's sake, Bill, don't bring about world peace too quickly, or we'll all be out of a job!"

"Don't worry, old friend.  I'll kill the last one reeeal slowly, just for you.  And for peace."

"For peace."

Technorati Tags: peace, Department of Peace, Dennis Kucinich, not really political, don't read into it, and we still use bullets in 2100 somehow

Thoreau's On First?

The following is a transcript of an 1846 telephone conversation between Henry David Thoreau and Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Thoreau:  Waldo, it's Henry.  Were you asleep?

Emerson:  Of course I was asleep.  Damn it, Henry, it's 7 p.m.  I don't know how they do things in the woods, but here in town the cutoff is 5.

Thoreau:  Guess where I am?

Emerson:  How should I know?

Thoreau:  I'm in a jail cell!

Emerson:  For reals?  What are you doing in there?

Thoreau:  The question, my dear Waldo, is what are you doing out there?

Emerson:  Out where?

Thoreau:  Outside the jail.  Not in jail, like me.

Emerson:  Why would I be in jail?

Thoreau:  Why would you be outside of it?

Emerson:  Have you been, you know . . . I don't want to say over the phone.

Thoreau:  No, it's cool.  I'm just trying to make a point.

Emerson:  Or maybe, my dear Henry, a point is trying to make you.  See what I did there?

Thoreau:  Listen, I'm in jail because I didn't pay my taxes.

Emerson:  April 15, I keep telling you.

Thoreau:  I didn't forget.  It's immoral for me to give money to support slavery and the Mexican-American War.  So I refused to pay the poll tax.

Emerson:  Oh, is that all?  You don't have to support slavery and war.  You didn't know?

Thoreau:  What do you mean?

Emerson:  It's easy.  You just write a little note that says, Here's the money, but you can only use it for, say, haircuts for orphans.  Oh, and make sure you get a receipt.  If you see a bunch of shaggy headed orphans around, go back and they'll give you a refund.

Thoreau:  So they can't use the money for anything I don't like?

Emerson:  Obviously.  What kind of system would that be?  Someone else forces you to give them money just because they tricked a bunch of yahoos into voting for them?  This is America, Henry!  But you do have to pay.  Just make sure you pay for something nice.

Thoreau:  What do your taxes go towards?

Emerson:  Funny you should ask.  Look out the jail cell window and you should see it.

Thoreau:  The Home for Wayward Bisexuals?

Emerson:  No, but right next to it.

Thoreau:  There's some kind of a sign, but it's dark.

Emerson:  Okay, well in the morning, you'll see it says Emerson Rules.  And there's a drawing of me doing an ollie kickflip.

Thoreau:  Wicked!  I want one of those!

Emerson:  Pay the poll tax, then.  Oh, and Henry?

Thoreau:  Yes?

Emerson:  Next time you wake me in the middle of the night, I'm going to put my taxes towards a Do Not Call list.

Thoreau:  Oh, Waldo!  [twelve minutes of giggling, followed by obligatory but mechanical phone sex]

Technorati Tags: Thoreau, Emerson, Civil Disobedience, poll tax, telephone conversations prior to 1876?, that was your first clue

Touching Letters from Adorable Children

Why I Smell

by Oswald M., age 5

First of all, I don't smell bad.  I smell like everyone else, just more.  And also, shut up.

Some people take a shower every day.  That is wasteful of water.  I don't ever shower, but I take baths, which is better for the environment.  Queen Elizabeth I took a bath once a month.  I take a bath more often than that.  So there.

As soon as I get out of the tub, I put on new clothes.  I have a system.  I take the old shirt, pants, and underwear I've been wearing and put them back in the drawer.  They've been "demoted" and can now recharge in the dark until they're clean again.  The other clothes get to vote on what my new outfit will be, which is a real honor, because that outfit stays with me night and day, learning from my wisdom.  Sometimes it's a popular outfit, or some clothes that haven't had much of a chance to see the world.  It's not up to me.

That's why sometimes I wear the footie pajamas for weeks.  The clothes have spoken.

Some people wash their faces every day, but I do something better.  I use the blow dryer on my face, which caramelizes the dirt into a hard, protective shell.  Also, it adds flavor.  My face tastes like peanut brittle.  Lick it and you'll agree.

And even if you care about the environment, you should change your socks every day.  But people don't realize that if you turn a sock inside out, it becomes a new sock.  Where'd the old sock go?  It's a mystery.  And you can also switch the left and right socks, that counts.  It also counts if you add stickers or decals.

Don't give in to peer pressure, or parent pressure.  No one can make you wash if they can't find you, like for example if you blend in with the backyard.  And although your friends might make fun of you, you'll make new friends.  The birds nesting in your hair will be your alarm clock.  The pinworms will sing you to sleep.

That's why I smell.  I smell because I have experienced life, and I don't want to wash it off.  And you can't make me.

Technorati Tags: stanky children, Queen Elizabeth, peanut brittle, pinworms

True Tales of Guitar Hero Encore: Rocks the 80s

It dropped on Tuesday, with Civilization 4: Beyond the Sword, and I hit the store bright and early to purchase the hell out of them.  Target was out, but Gamestop had plenty.  They actually gave me a box from the pile of reserved games.  Made me feel special.  I had a bit of a row with the clerk over Guitar Hero 80s, which proceeded thusly:

(Oh, and I call myself "Tristram" in this dialogue, because that's how I remember it.  Subjectivity, you know.)

TRISTRAM:  Hullo!  I'd like to purchase this game.

CLERK:  OK, but you do know this game features rocking out, right?  It's only for rockers.

TRISTRAM:  Of course.  I know how to rock.

CLERK:  Yeah, we just have to ask that.  Sometimes kids get a hold of it and their parents come in later because their faces melted off from a blistering guitar solo and we have to buy them off with gift cards and gauze.

TRISTRAM:  Oh, I don't mind proving my skills.  Toss me that guitar.

CLERK:  Rock on!  [tosses me a guitar]

TRISTRAM:  No, not a real guitar.  What the hell are these wiry things on the neck?  Give me a HERO guitar.

CLERK:  Sorry, I didn't know you were up to that level.  [tosses me a plastic guitar, with fret buttons, like Hendrix used]

TRISTRAM:  Wheedly-do, deedly-yo, tweedilly tweedilly tweedilly reeeeeeowwww . . .  EEEOOOW.

CLERK:  Oh God!  That's insane!  I couldn't be rocked any harder by a nanny on steroids!  You've got hotter licks than an aardvark on fire!  My ears just came!

TRISTRAM:  I CAN'T STOP GET OUT OF HERE NOW

[Later, among the ambulances, fire trucks, and animal control vehicles, the CLERK recounts his terrifying experience.]

CLERK:  And I ran.  I ran so far awa-hu-yay.  I just ran.  I ran all night and day! . . . I couldn't get away.

REPORTER:  But what happened to Tristram?

CLERK:  He didn't make it.  No one can stare into the eye of awesome for that long without going mad himself.  Or at least getting carpal tunnel syndrome.  No, he's in Heaven right now, shredding with the angels, or in Hell, hitting the Devil's whammy bar.

REPORTER:  Or he could be in Purgatory.

CLERK:  Don't you see?  We're the ones in Purgatory, because try as we might, we'll never rock as hard as him.

Technorati Tags: Guitar Hero, Guitar Hero Encore, Rocks the 80s, slight exaggerations

Tornado Loans

Have you seen those places around town that offer tornado loans?  They look legitimate enough, with big signs that say DON'T WORRY and WE'RE NOT USURERS, but it's a total scam.  I applied for one the other day and the first thing they wanted to know was if I was a cop.  I told them no, and then they asked about the value of my internal organs separately and in total.  I now know those were warning signs.  Anyway, I walked out of there with only $300 (angry kidney syndrome) in exchange for letting them take out a tornado insurance policy on my apartment.

[Fun fact: Did you know that you can't take out a life insurance policy on a stranger?  In fact, even if you know them, you need insurable interest or the person's consent.  Isn't that lame?  I had a brilliant plan to make a whole lot of money and get rid of my enemies at the same time.  I rented a haunted house and everything.]

Tornados don't hit D.C. all that often, so I figured I was safe.  But as soon as I got home, I found a guy throwing himself over and over at my front door.  I later found out his name was Silas.  He wore a gray suit covered in cotton balls and string, and was howling at the top of his lungs.

ME:  Who the hell are you?

SILAS:  Whoosh!  Whoosh!

ME:  Your name is Whoosh?

SILAS:  No, I'm a tornado.  Only hurricanes have names.  Whoosh!  Let me in!

ME:  Are you from the Tornado Loan people?

SILAS:  I'm from everywhere, and nowhere.  I'm a quirk of weather.  Good thing you have tornado insurance.

ME:  You just gave yourself away there.  I would say, "Aha!" if I hadn't already put two and "duh" together.

SILAS:  No, I'm a tornado!  I'm a perfectly innocent meteorological phenomenon.  Why won't you let me in?

ME:  Whoa there, tornado.  I didn't say I wouldn't let you in.  I'm skeptical, but I'm not rude.  Come on in.  Just don't break anything.

And he didn't!  Tornados are capricious like that.  He just picked me up, carried me around the room a couple times, and set me down in the exact same place.  What a coincidence, huh?  Silas and I are good friends now and although he's not a real tornado, I hope someday a fairy visits his window and makes him one.  I can't think of a nicer guy to flip my car.

Technorati Tags: tornados, tornado loans, Silas, insurance, haunted houses, friendship

Remember when all the sitcom dads were architects?

ARCHITECT DAD

Theme Song:

Cause you're working
Building a family!
Holding on and holding it in . . .
Yeah you're working
Building a family!
And choosing so carefully . . .
Cause you're Architect Dad!

[MOM, KID 1 and KID 2 are sitting in the living room, playing a board game.  DAD enters through the front door, carrying blueprints.  He hangs his construction helmet on the coat rack.]

DAD

Hoo boy, what a day I've had.  Kids, don't ever go into architecture.

KID 1

But where will we live and work?

MOM

No silly, your father means architecture as a profession.  He's not telling you that you can't enter buildings any more.  [Beat.  To DAD:] Or are you?

DAD

No, it's the first one.  Kids, be a psychologist, or an ad agency shill, or a rock musician, anything but an architect.

MOM

What's wrong, dear? 

DAD

[Taps blueprints]  Oh, I've spent all day trying to draw this blueprint, or “draft” it, as we architects say, and it's just not coming together.  And without the blueprint we can't make the building.

KID 1

Hey, maybe we can help!

DAD

Well, that's an idea.  Okay, sure.  [He sweeps the pieces off the board game and spreads the blueprints on it.]  Oh, I hope you guys memorized where all the pieces were.

KID 1

That's all we've been doing this past hour!

DAD

Well, thank God for autism.  Anyway, look at this drawing.

MOM

Well, dear, it's not so bad . . .

DAD

That's nice of you to say, but it's awful.  It's the sort of building you would run away from even if it weren't collapsing, which it almost certainly would.

KID 1

It looks like wolf puke!

MOM

Now, now, language, Kid 1.

DAD

No, he or she is right.  It does look like wolf puke – disgusting, and scary, because you know a wolf is nearby and upset. I don't suppose you have any ideas about how to fix it?

KID 1

Hmmm . . . make it taller?

DAD

Make it . . . wow!  That is a good idea!  [He pulls out a piece of chalk.]  How much taller should it be?

KID 1

Um, a lot taller?

DAD

No!  Darn!  We almost had it.

KID 2

Hey Dad, what about slightly taller?

DAD

Slightly . . . that's it!  Sort of like this!  [He draws on the blueprint.]  And I'll put windows on it, and a roof . . .

MOM

You're really on a roll!  Windows, you say?

DAD

Well, it's an old architecture trick.  And the roof is sort of my signature touch, almost all of my buildings have one somewhere.  But wait.  I still don't know what color it should be.  Well, kids?

KID 1

Isn't it already blue?

DAD

No, that's just the blueprint.  I have to decide on a color and then my assistant colors it in later using special pencils or something.

KID 1

I kind of like blue.

DAD

Hey, I like it too, but there's no such thing as a blue building. It's not feasible.  Anyone else?

KID 2

Umm . . . cloth?  Is that a color?

MOM

Mind if I take a swing at it, dear?

DAD

By all means.  Here you are.  [Hands MOM the chalk.]

MOM

What if I – [Holds up the chalk, then turns it horizontal.]

DAD

[As MOM brings down the chalk and begins rolling it across the blueprint:]  What are you --  That's not how you hold it – You're making it all – Wait a second, is that white?

MOM

Yes, what if you made a white building?

DAD

You mean like a ceiling, but on the outside?

MOM

I don't know, I'm not an architect, but it seemed to me . . .

DAD

You've done it!  A white building!  I'll have to talk to the painters, but I think they can do it!  [Kisses MOM on the cheek.]  Thank you so much, all of you.  With this design I'm going to be the next Frank Lloyd Wright, or some other famous architect.

MOM

Sounds like it's time for a group hug!

KID 1

A load-bearing hug!

DAD

Oh you guys!  I don't know what that means.

THE END