I used to keep a 3 wood by the front door for protection, but two home invasions later I've learned that my face breaks hard to the left, so I switched to a plastic putter for children. Φ
I always thought I wanted a house powered by imagination, but I'm really starting to rethink the whole thing. Now every time I want to see what's in the fridge or keep it cold, I have to crawl up under the bulb and have an idea. Φ
I want to open a fine art gallery. It'll be full of okay works by six of the most satisfactory painters around. Φ
I'm running out of options, here. First my wife tells me not to treat her like an animal after I gave her a distemper shot, then she lets me have it just for treating her like a plant and setting her on the windowsill to face the sun. Φ
And now, a plea for charity…
Hi, I'm James Pillar. You might know me from the store, if you shop at the same stores as me. But let's get real: we all know that's not why I'm here talking to you today, no sir. Today, I'm here to talk about the Butterfly Dreams Initiative. What is the Butterfly Dreams Initiative, you ask? Well, the Butterfly Dreams Initiative is a hot new organization working to raise the funds necessary to ensure all butterflies achieve their dreams. So just what are
a butterfly's dreams, you say? I'm glad you asked, but, to be honest, I have no idea because I'm just a copyeditor, not the frickin'frickin'
CEO of this whole crazy thing. Perhaps they want to engage in some sort of art project that makes the world as beautiful as they already think they are? Or perhaps they want to go back to school and finally finish that Bachelors in criminal justice, with a special concentration on death penalty cases? Then again, maybe they'll just use the windfall to try and recapture those youthful, carefree days as a hairy worm, or “caterpillar.” You know what? Let me just level with you, here. This is all a facade. Truth be told, I hate butterflies. But can you blame me? They think they're so great, what with their cute little paws joyfully batting around colorful balls of yarn while they purr and lick milk up off a saucer with that smug, holier than thou look on their whiskers and little button noses. You know the type. Anyway, please send us your checks and money orders, thank you, and god bless America. Φ
I bet drinking from a Champagne-dispensing ice sculpture really helps raise an artist's spirits during a rough patch in their ice cubist period. Φ
I sent my imaginary friend a postcard. It just said, “wish you were.” Φ
Some people like to listen to the radio, but I rarely if ever take an electrical appliance's advice at face value. Φ
I'm excited to announce that I now hold the world record for the largest fish ever drowned by a self-taught marine biologist. In other news, I sure hope the local rescue aquarium finds that missing manatee soon. Φ
RECYCULUS, from the lowercase, italicized recyculus, literally translates to “from many small bicycles, one bicycle airship” — most likely a nod to the extremely respectable publication's earliest days, during which it rode, impressively sans-hands, atop a wave of light-to-moderate interest in secondhand mega-bicycles that began all throughout history, and persisted well past the future.
In an age when draconian town ordinances hadn't yet been applied to enormous bicycles, exceedingly burdensome village laws required all huge local bicycles to take up entire city blocks, thereby — or so went the theory — maximizing computing power. Despite these job-killing regulations — and to say nothing of the continuous, violent Mongol conquest of its central sales office — RECYCULUS managed to stand out from the used-gargantuan-bicycle crowd, thanks in part to its line of similarly-titanic bicycles, based on designs the burgeoning daily newsletter distributor endeavored to license, at tremendous expense, from hundreds of competing outfits specializing in subpar jumbo bicycles.
Finally, in the first six or seven minutes of the winter of 1402, lightning struck. Later that day, in a quiet moment following the fires, came a turning point: Whilst hopelessly tending to his many serious burns, founder H. Angus Recyculus (no relation) took it upon himself to seize an opportunity to break into the centuries-shy-of-being-conceived-of collection of world wide webs, refocusing the samely-renamed RECYCULUS's efforts on becoming the world's first * and only ** daily issuer of high-test web*** pages — a distinction it maintains, on both counts, as of about 3 PM eastern, 2 PM central.
In those first few thousand heady days, the simple act of “uplinking” new content to the infant web printing press required tens of thousands of recently-paroled, hastily-minted engineers to tightly roll up each and every lovingly-crafted submission, before squeezing them into their hometown energy concern's expansive network of live, weather-frayed, high-load municipal trunk cable — itself yet to be invented — while taking great pains all over their humanity and skeletons to avoid allowing the sudden plumes of almost-certainly-unrelated person steam to curl and/or smear the delicate, invaluable blurbs, before allowing good old-fashioned American electricity to do what it does best, dozens of decades before those words would have any meaning at all. Back then — just like pretty recently — RECYCULUS engineers could be found electrocuted along our nation's many miles of pristine, white sand interstate highways; a quaint reminder of a time we were still in until, again, pretty recently.
As any latterly hypnotized student of history will be instructed to recall, RECYCULUS's unprecedented 587-year run came to an abrupt end at 11:59 PM, on that fateful night of December 31, 1989, when its headquarters exploded during the Great Headquarters Explodings of ’89, and shortly thereafter gently floated off to that elephantine bicycle reseller in the sky. Forty minutes later — once every piece of cinder had finally been looted, discarded, or eaten — it became abundantly clear to the wandering hordes that these scant 5.8 × 1083 scanned pages were all that remained of the once great whatever it had been. Another forty minutes later — after the cinder poisoning had largely subsided, and acting on behalf of RECYCULUS without the proper authorization — the mesothelioma-fortified de facto chieftains decided to make each and every issue available, free of charge, to the entire remaining world, with only the moderate wish that their publisher's great, indecipherable legacy never be truly forgotten or understood.
All of us here at RECYCULUS — from H. Angus Recyculus XVII, Sr. (no relation), on down to the lowliest Senior Vice President of Worldwide Distribution, each of whom has most definitely not**** gone on to live a life of magnificent luxury within the plush, palatial confines of the literal new head office they collided with the instant they missed the turn for the metaphorical one — sincerely hope you'll find something to enjoy in each of these 5.8 trillion trillion million septillion nonillion modest, extremely amazing, humble, profoundly transcendent, ordinary pages of woven web. (Maybe over a long***** weekend, or something.) And we say that not merely for the sake of the families of the millions who have died meaningless, excruciating deaths to bring you these bland yet succulent texts — but also for the many, many, many millions more who have survived; bedridden by intractable full-body hair pain and roving blood spasms, having long ago been rendered physically incapable of instigating death's sweet release.
This one's for the fans.
* presumably, based on fonts
** based on searches conducted in 1997, while the modems were in the shop — individual results may vary, if they so choose
*** prior to that point, most of the world's pages were spun from leftover cocoon fuzz
**** based on the most up-to-date lies available at the time of the lying
***** likely one of the longest on record, because even if you're a quick reader and were able to enjoy one issue per minute, it'd still take you 1.1 quinvigintillion years — or around 79.8 million billion trillion quadrillion septillion times longer than the universe has even existed — to enjoy them all (or you could just print them for later, in which case maybe ask about the bulk rate on ink, because the sheets of paper required to do so would stretch 205.9 unvigintillion light years across the cosmos, or — were the universe a sphere — roughly 13.9 trillion quadrillion quintillion septillion googol trips around it)