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Mike has chided me for adding the new category of "Dumb Stories" without any official announcement. Truth be told, I didn't draw attention to the section as I wasn't entirely confident it was worth anyone's time to read the silly fictional bits.

And I only draw attention to it now as I was unsure which section the following post falls into. I suspect both and neither.

The blogger is on a plane in a window seat. The flight has just taken off, and is in the strange and uncertain area between runway and clouds. It is 1 o'clock in the daytime, so the houses surrounding the O'hare airport are entirely visible.

He stares down at all the houses, becoming neighborhoods, becoming cities. He immediately begins trying to fill in the details of them all. The people who live there, their daily routines, their wants in life. His brain quickly fails at the task, returning an "Existential Terror Overflow" error.

A blog entry being to percolate in his head. "I wonder if people who are afraid of flying are actually just afraid of seeing this perspective of the world. Of how monstrously big humanity truly is."

The gleam of excitement in his eye dies away as he realizes the fallacy of his thought. He is clearly afraid of what he saw, yet does not fear flying. Rather than having exposed something common to they psyche of millions of Americans, he was really just talking about himself.

He rephrases the entry to be more honest "Flying scares the crap out of me. It makes it so clear how much of the world has been moved about and put out of place by us. The scope of all of us is so large, that it begs the question, what is so great about you? How much dirt have you moved?"

Sounds like the usual sort of fare he blogs about, all self-humanity loathing and despairing about what is essentially the minutia of a non-event. The recursive tragicomedy which is always playing in the stage of his head. The pseudo-intellectual metaphors, sprinkled all too desperately with out of place big words. The meta-discussion of his own doubts.

There is turbulence on the plane. His reaction is to relax, almost completely. The tenseness of the take-off melting away.

He is not afraid of flying. In fact, when things get dicey he seems more comfortable. He has played with the thought of the plane plunging to the ground all too many times, and always finds it strangely relaxing. A destiny destination that requires nothing of him. He thinks this fact probably says something about himself. He paws for the hidden meaning but comes up with nothing.

It's not a deathwish at all. He has no wish to be part of a plane crash He just thinks he just appreciates the powerlessness of it. That, like so few grim scenarios, there is essentially no clever way out. No permutation of events or ideas that would yield survival. It is a puzzle-less death. Which no one would would think ill of him for not escaping.

Now he has lost his train of thought entirely. Has no central thesis for a blog post at all, it has flitted away, lost forever. Luckily the pilot has just announced electronics can now be used, and he consumes the permitted distractions hungrily.

The Transitive Property

So Media Matters documented an outrageous exchange on Fox News Radio.

Apparently a caller said that Barrak Obama is *such* a good speaker that he is on par with one A. Hitler's oratorical prowess.

I couldn't be more upset about such an underhanded jab!

Everybody knows Reagan was the great communicator! So why is he not in either side of this comparison?

Does that caller honestly believe that Barrak Obama is a better speaker than Reagan? If not, why has Regan's speaking ability never been mentioned into the same context as the leader of the 3rd Reich?

Or maybe Fox News just thinks Hitler's speaking skills surpass those of The Gipper!?!?

For shame Fox News! No jelly beans for you.

(Edit: Fixed the embarrassingly pervasive misspellings of proper nouns.)

Object Permanence

When I was in 5th grade, our 6 month old Cairne Terrier named "Muffin" got hit by a car on the freeway by our house.

I always blamed myself for it, as I had let Muffin into the garage when my mother, busy with my 2 year old sister, had asked me to fetch something from the diaper bag in a car in the garage.

I'd like to say that I was the model of helpfulness, but in truth I was annoyed at being sent on such a task and while I did see Muffin scurry into the garage with me, this was forgotten after 30 seconds of frustrated minivan rifling. By the time I was set to leave the garage my mind was more focused on slamming the garage door loudly enough to passive aggressively rebut my opinion of the entire chore then on the fate of our pet.

Later on, one of my parents took the car somewhere, unwittingly letting out Muffin into the incredibly interesting night.

After awhile my mother noticed the puppy's absence and took out after him. For reasons you already know, she returned in tears.

I demanded to see Muffin. She declined, and I insisted again. This cycle continued, until she gave in, and escorted me down to the garage to see what was left of our family dog.

She had placed her in the far corner of the garage. We had to take the long, U-shaped path around both cars to get there, normally a 10 second affair, but to me it seemed far longer.

I remember the blanket wrapped about the injured pup more than anything. It was a familiar blanket to me, always about the house in one room or another. I never saw it again after that day.

At the time my goal was to take it all in, no matter how horrible. Yet all I have managed to recollect was some tuffs of fur and some red.



I have no ideas for a post. Possibly due to the process of sleep-deprivation induced brain damage that is "parenting".

Instead I provide you these three *mystery* links, with a theme only the Internet could love: