think of it as a lighthouse, screaming "here be monsters!" and "here be safety" in a single photonic howl.

think of it as a broadcast, because the narrow beam only finds what it's directed at.

think of it as mourning, because of what was that never got to be.

and think of it as almonds, lemons, and bitter iron at the back of the mouth. 

you can pretend not to know the way to San Jose, but you can't pretend not to know where San Jose is. it's Roy Kent, and that's the struggle for you.

once in a great while
the universe is 
a poet;
the triadecametrical thrum of the galaxies,
like the throbbing of some vast engine
delivering power to the arcade of the gods.
(imagine the pinball they must play! tilting Olympus)
the counterpoint of the endless abyssal silence,
all that Nothing the lyric of the great symphony Something.
like a jazz combo learning to work together,
finding each others' groove, hearing each others' soul.
and that is us, bounded in Hamlet's nutshell,
bounded by infinity itself.

I know you think it's Christmas. and, to be fair, you have a right to think that. this is Meldorica, after all, and even thought potted plants are sentient and most end tables are political operatives, you still get a fair day's wages for a half-weeks' work.

or at least that's what the pope says, when he's not running into the woods with a roll of toilet paper and the August 2004 Maxim.

I keep turning right but I keep returning to my starting point.  

Can the ubiquitous segues, hoss. You're scaring the innocent bystanders...

A snow job is better than no job, or is it?

BITE YOUR TONGUE! 

winter is here.

Yeah, you say that Charlie don't surf, but have you actually not seen Charlie not surfing? It's vision airy.

the first drawer is where I keep my socks. the left socks are on the right, and the right socks are on the left. each one is labeled with an arrow pointing to the foot it doesn't go on. I hate when my socks get mixed up.

I keep a few spare hens in the second drawer. it's noisy, and it's smelly, but in these modern times I just don't see how you don't have spare hens on hand.

the third drawer ... I don't want to talk about that. it's not anything weird or gross, it's just where I keep the inescapable silence and emptiness that will inevitably replace this entire universe.

the fourth drawer is for socks I haven't gotten around to sorting and labelling yet. that's where most of my frustration comes from, so I don't open it much. I've got two pairs in the first drawer, so as long as I keep up with my laundry I don't need the other four hundred.

the fight drawer is for fight club. moving on.

the sixth drawer is for the club to not talk about fight club. it meets every Tuesday in the third drawer. 

I've often wondered what I would do if I rubbed a lamp and a sexy genie came out, offering me anything I wanted

first off, I'd ask her to finish polishing the lamp. I mean, that's a given. why am I still polishing lamps if I have a genie to do my bidding?

then I'd probably wish for more wishes. I feel like that would be a good icebreaker. I mean, she wouldn't grant it, but she'd giggle cutely and think I was an idiot, and that would get our relationship off on the right foot.

I wouldn't ask her to do impressions like Robin Williams. I bet genies are super-tired of trying to live up to that. there's just no way.

would I ask her to do sex stuff? no, probably not. I mean, if she *wanted* to do sex stuff, I wouldn't say no. Well, not to most stuff. I don't know what genies are into, so I don't want to commit to something that might be very uncomfortable.

I would probably ask her for a trillion dollars to give to the poor. I bet if each poor person had a trillion dollars, there would be less poverty in the world for a couple years until Amazon and social media figured out a way to rip them all off.

then I would ask for her phone number. you gotta try, right? 

IN CASE OF EMERGENCY by all means stand here reading these instructions, you absolute twit. this sign is just here to keep you busy while all the smart people do what they do. otherwise you'd be flailing your arms wildly, probably screaming and wetting other people, and we'd have to spare precious resources in a dire situation just getting you out of the way. 

I used to know Michael Stipe, Patti Smith, Tom Petty, and probably three or four other people's names. 

how many dozes could a bull doze, if a bull dozes bozers?

wait, that's not right. you're a fireman. 

the last thing Major Fontaineau said before his lungs collapsed and he resigned from the Zoning Commission was, "I'm actually three ocelots in a cat, pretending to be Raymond Burr. don't tell anyone except those reporters over there."

sometimes I get tired of telling everyone what to do. can't people just oppress and exploit themselves once in a while?

I don't know why I got into this lifeguard gig. 

oh, pale rider! she brings death in the morning,
pancakes after 3, and telegrams from 1891 tycoons
in the evening with your supper:
bone-dry despair, slightly chilled and served
with a salad of spring greens
and disdain. 

look, if it's ogling you want, you probably should do something about that dog that keeps barking all night. he's very off key, and the other dogs are complaining.

red alert red alert DANGER Spock Robinson!

all readings show we are on a collision course with anti-space! recommend we engage our pesto-plasma shields and set warp drives to puree factor 4.

make it so, mr. solo! admiral gandolf expects us to join the fleet at Cair Paravel by 2900 hours last Thursday, and we're not going to be early again. not on my watch!

sir, that is not your watch. that is a vibrator.

good observation, Doctor. now if you will excuse me, I have an appointment in Samara.