Tuesday Afternoon Brainstorming Posted by Sad Blogger , 8.3.13 at Friday, March 08, 2013, in

Yesterday, the internet had the nerve to ask me what an ISP is. I mean everybody knows it's an Inter-space Potato.

Sometimes ISPs go insane and start eating each other. Cannapotatobalism.

There's a class in some universities that teaches students how to put a potato in a can. They literally stand in front of a desk, pick up a potato, pick up a can, and insert the potato into the can. But there was one student—let's call him Stanley—who was incapable of making any progress with his assignment and was subsequently labelled by the class as being the dumbest person in known existence. Any time one of their peers would make any sort of gaffe or mistake, they took to ridiculing those poor souls with shouts of “He's so stupid, he couldn't even can a potato.” This phrase gained such massive popularity in the '30s, it spread worldwide and was accepted into the global lexicon of slang. Several decades later, young people would wonder from whence the phrase originated and facetiously hypothesize to each other that it came from an antiquated post-secondary program in which students were taught to put potatos in cans and that the people who failed at this activity were thought to be major losers. They would laugh. And it would be true.

It was recently brought to me attention that the Canadian government has made a federal decree against uttering the words, “It's not a tumor.” Obviously, this was an exciting and maybe even relevant practice in the '90s, but it is not 2013 and the joke is now a satire of itself. This is thrilling news for many people worn down from years of tumor humor, but it has been brought to our attention that the latest announcement from Parliament Hill is more of a roadblock than a blessing for some. Oncologists everywhere are up in arms over the new law, claiming that it makes a significant percentage of the news the deliver to their patients virtually impossible to deliver.
"Mr. Vrenelope, I have some good news for you!"
"Splendid!"
"Indeed, I'm please to tell you that it's not...well I mean...the...on your spine...it's not..."
"Yes?"
"Well this is difficult to say."
"I thought you said it was good news?"
"Oh it is! No, no, no. It's excellent news. It's just...you know."
"No, I don't, Doc. What's the meaning of this?"
"Okay I'm going to say a word and you say a word that rhymes with it. Good? It's not a...rumor..."
"Humor? What?"
"No!. I'm trying to say you don't have a....bloomer..."
"I beg your pardon!"
"Oh my god why is this so difficult?! Ummmm. Alright, lean in close. (whispers) It's not a tumo-"
"POLICE!!! GET ON THE GROUND!!!"
"Hmamsndjbhsdma!"

Last week I read a chapter on the power of the prepositional phrase in the may-as-well-be-a-ninth-grade-grammar-textbook I was required to get for my online journalism class. It was explaining how it is possible to communicate an idea with a sentence comprised of barely more than a subject and a verb, however, many ideas are too complex to express with simple sentences. Now obviously a nice, chunky sentence full of articles and prepositions and punctuation and conjunctions is easier to understand and is more aesthetically pleasing. But you can express an idea with a long string of simple sentences. So I was thinking that it would be cool to pen a novel written entirely with simple sentences. I realized, though, that such an extensive, mangled collection of single thoughts would quickly lose its novelty. So I think maybe a one- or two-page short story would do. I mean I'm not going to write it now, but I'm just sharing.

Collapsing laptop screens. Boobies.

A man is standing behind me, counting nails in the walls and making obscure gestures with his hands. It's possible he is a gifted kung fu master fighting off the phantoms sent to protect said nails. It's also possible he's trying to measure the available space on the wall to hang his artwork. But it's more interesting to imagine that the bare nails were forged from some mystical biomineral that various gods and demigods mined into obscurity in millenia long expired. These nails are the last remaining implements made of that stuff of fairytales and all manner of ghost and spirit have been stationed for eternity in this coffeeshop to protect the nails. But this inconspicuous Asian man with his blue '90s windbreaker and camera slung round his neck...he is daring. He dares to appear here now, amidst this swarm of phantoms, and fight to the death to acquire the ancient magics stored in the seemingly insignificant nails. Or. You know. He's just counting nails.