Irony is like running out to the street to save a puppy from being hit by a car and being hit by the car yourself and then finding out that the puppy was really just a paper bag. That's irony, I think.
I remember my first real pet. Jeremy the Gerbil, I named him, and a good gerbil he was too. It was pretty rough on me, the day he passed on. I blamed myself for awhile, but I finally realized that it couldn't be helped. Of course, I know now that he wasn't dishwasher safe.
You notice how we often shorten things in language so that the common phrase is entirely ambiguous, the original meaning lost on anyone unfamiliar with the expression? For example, if a person has a cold, they tend to say they are "stuffed up". What does that mean? Why can't we just be straightforward about it and say, "Wow, I have this terrible cold, and my nasal cavities are entirely stuffed up with a surplus of mucus. Gah, what a mess, I'm dripping all over the place. Oh geez, I'm gonna sneeze. Ah--" Wouldn't that be better?
I have acute psychoanophobia: fear of psychiatrists. Now here's the pickle: who can I see about this?
One day, I'll fake my own death so that I can eavesdrop on people's conversations during my funeral. The gossip, the snide remarks, the lack of sympathy. I'll gauge carefully how much thought and genuine emotion the lucky individual who gives my eulogy really puts into it. I'll pay attention to who cries, and who checks their watches. And then, when all is said and done, and they're dropping on the first shovels full of dirt, I'll break free from the soil, beginning with a single, grasping hand (for effect). And then it'll be time for some will revision. Did you leave your cell phone on, cousin Mary? Well, you can just forget about my Transformers collection now! I'll probably have to replace the guestbook with a waiver, though. "The deceased will not be held responsible for psychological damages incurred during the funeral. Anyone with a heart condition should leave before the burial. The first five rows will get splattered with newly churned earth."
Who coined the phrase, "coined a phrase"?
I am a giant. I sit at the table and sup on my three tons of mashed potatoes, and whole, broiled cow. My utensils consist of a pitchfork, a shovel, and a long-handled hacksaw. The little green-clad villagers watch me as I eat, running around on my plate, constantly worrying about the garnish and querying as to the satisfaction of my meal. Randomly, I pluck one up and send him down my gullet. The villagers scream in fear; anger; indignation. We had a deal, they claim. I laugh, and laugh, and laugh. "Fools," I bellow. "What can you do? To me, you are like tiny miniature people, made out of peas stuck together with mashed potatoes and faces I drew on with gravy. You are nothing to me!" I chortle as I devour another mushy villager. Truly, I am king, I think to myself. The other people in the cafeteria stare for some reason.
I don't get why these rich people pay exorbitant amounts of money to go on tourist trips to space, and yet those darn monkeys get to go for free. Those bunch of fie, furry free-loaders!
Sometimes I think it'd be neat to just abandon physics, and study instead for a master's in theology and ancient languages, with a special emphasis on the occult. I could spend decades poring over obscure, ancient texts, deciphering prophecies, and pretty much obsessing over every piece of graffiti and bathroom lymerick the ancient Babylonians ever wrote. I'd be publishing papers no one would ever read, avoided constantly by the other professors, working alone in a small, forgotten wing of the most decrepit building in some less-than-prestigious university, and being largely ignored by the world. But let me tell you, when some ancient evil rises, when the dead walk the earth once again, when a blood-red moon waxes nigh in a portentous, blackened sky, whose door do you think they'll be knocking at? You better believe it baby. Cha-ching!
To me, getting happiness out of life is simple. All I really want is a job where I could wake up every day and not do anything and get paid lots of money. That's really all happiness is to me.
Could a dozen monkeys with a dozen typewriters come up with this inanity? You bet. It probably wouldn't take too long either. But where could you ever find all those typewriters? Easier just to check the archives.