Work this past month has become an all-compassing beast. I wont bother with the details; it's typical office stuff that occurs in a thousand similar cubes across the face of middle class America. Regardless, for me work has always not been my life but a means to live my life. This past month it's been jutting into my 'me' life. Irritating, but it happens. I wish I could camp somewhere and pan gold for a living. Now that's the life.
Ever notice that that fabric cube walls is made out of kinda looks like burlap.
The tadpoles in my fish tank have graduated to micro-frogs. The change rather surprised me, one day they were tadpoles and then suddenly they were frogs. Well, toads, actually. Little black ones. While tadpoles seem to survive just fine on fish flakes, I am not so sure toads can. So I suppose I'll have to bring out the little fish net and catch them and send them outside to live their toady little lives. Or I supposed I could leave them in there. Maybe they can live on fish flakes. If they die, they will just float to the bottom where the snails shall have a feast. I wonder if they would eat brine shrimp. Toad's vs sea monkeys. That father sea monkey with his tie and pipe would scream in terror as the big toad inhaled him for dinner.
Pic sucks but those are frogs
The other day I was wondering if Aqua man could control frogs. Aqua man has the ability to control all water-based life forms. I think. I've never heard of him sending a sea cucumber after anyone, however once he did flood a room by commanding microscopic organisms in the water to drag the water in. Frogs, however, are amphibians. They start out as fish-like creatures, but once they transmogrify into frogs, they do not require water. Look at toads in Florida. They love pavement. Drive down the road at night and you see toads hopping all over the pavement. Pavement is bliss. Throw an octopus on that pavement, and it dies. Aquaman can't command that octopus to do anything except stink in the sun.
Thus, my theory is that Aquaman cannot control frogs, not even in their tadpole stage. So in order to destroy Aquaman, all you need is a giant frog. Perhaps a monkey to ride it as well; one with a cowboy hat who would scowl and yank the frog-reigns onwards to Aquaman's demise.
I finally got around to installing that cat door. The concept behind it is simple; the cats wear a magnetic ball around their neck. When they come up to the cat door, the magnet pulls up a latch inside the contraption and allows the cat to head-butt the little flap open. I thought it was a rather ingenious device and it would keep stray cats from my house. The reality is that the cats are scared to death of it. They think it is some sort of gaping robotic maw that is looking to eat them. Also, the magnetic ball does not ride properly on the collar. My cats are rather lanky, so when they poke their head up to the door (At least what I observed when I grabbed a couple of them and butted their heads against the opening) the magnet does not seem to be in the proper position to trigger the door. As a result they sulk around and peer suspiciously at it. I am pretty sure they figured how to get out of it, because that does not require the magnetic ball, only a press against the flap. However getting in is another matter.
Also, I think they have some sort of secret exit in the attic. I'll have to crawl through it this weekend and find out. On the plus side it's amusing to see what metal things attach themselves to the magnetic ball when they come back inside. Too bad they cannot bring me gold.
Gold!
Tomorrow I am buying myself a train ticket. Not to the savannah trip, which has to be postponed, but on a return trip form New York. I decided to splurge and buy a little private room. It cost $350 or so for a small private room on the train from new york from Florida, and the entire trip is supposed to take around 25 hours. I wanted to do this instead of flying, mainly for something new and interesting to do. The room is microscopic, however it has a bed that stretches by the window and it's own private toilet. I thought that was pretty cool. So for 25 hours I'll just chill out in my little room and watch the scenery go by. Perhaps drunk and naked.
Can't do that on an airplane.
You know what I hate the most about airplanes?
The snack cart.
When the stewardesses comes pushing that little cart that serves drinks and a sack of nuts. It takes forever to make its way down the aisle, and as it does you see the people in the rows around you getting more and more antsy as the drink cart comes closer. They can't wait to get their plastic cup of 1/3 a can of beverage and ice and their little sack of slightly mushy nuts. Hot damn, like they have never had nuts and soda before. They crane their necks and lick their lips in anticipation as the cart inches ever so forward. And once they finish it off they sit there and forlornly stare at the little pile of garbage they made on the fold-out tray before them until once again the drink cart makes it's slow and laborious travel back down the aisle to scoop up the little garbage pile. God I hate the snack cart. The dignity some people give up in anticipation of the snack cart. I never get anything from it; I pop a bunch of benadryl and keep my eyes closed until the horrid flight is over.
I went to Kryastal's today. I thought that maybe by now the zombie woman who mans the counter might have moved on, but no, she's still there. Apparently it's a career choice. She was there in all her zombie glory, scaly skin with bits of flakes just waiting to drift off and land on my krystal burgers. Or perhaps those open sores she had on her elbows might rub against the straw of my drink as she turns around and gives me my tray. Krystal burgers are disgusting enough, having them served to you by a zombie simply sucks.
2026 Update
Dialing the infernal machine back to 2007, where Ed pays $350 to be drunk and naked on a train while frogs topple Aquaman.
Nineteen years later, and the snack cart has won. You now pay a monthly fee to have overpriced nuts pushed at you by an algorithm, and the people still crane their necks. The private train room that cost $350 now costs what a small car did, and instead of a tiny toilet you get a QR code for the lavatory down the hall; the bed, if any, comes with a 'quiet car' warning speaker right above it. The fabric cube walls you despised are now gray laminate and open plan, so everyone's 'me' life has been completely swallowed by the all-compassing beast—only now the beast pings them with celebratory gifs after midnight. The microchip cat door exists and still scares cats, but the magnetic ball works, so cats accidentally bring you keys and bottle caps instead of gold. The zombie woman at the burger counter has been replaced by a touchscreen kiosk that looks at you the same dead way, but with zero skin flakes, which makes it more sterile and less honest. Also, drunk and naked on a train? They'd livestream you on someone's phone before the conductor arrives. 2007 was a paradise of privacy and cheap carbs.
“2007 Ed, did you ever reach the moral bottom of the fish tank—did you let those toads die for your snails, or did you sneak them outside like a tiny god of the pavement? And was that $350 private train room worth being drunk and naked in, or did you just eat your own weight in airline snack-cart shame for the next decade?” — Beelzebubba the Third
2007 Ed: So, Beelzebubba, you got me. The toads. I'll admit, for a day or two I thought about letting nature take its course, you know, the snails need a good meal, and watching a tiny toad corpse drift down to the bottom would've been educational. But then I pictured myself as the grim reaper of a six-ounce tank and it made me queasy. So I fished those little black bastards out with the net, set them loose by the side of the house, and wished them luck with the pavement. Felt like a tiny god, sure, but the benevolent kind, not the smiting kind. The snails were pissed, but they'll get over it. As for the train, I haven't taken it yet — ticket's tomorrow. I plan on being at least a little drunk, maybe in my underwear at the most. Naked might scare the conductor. And I'll pack a sack of my own nuts, because you're right, the plane snack cart made me feel dirty for years. I'd rather watch Florida turn into Georgia with my pants on than listen to that cart creak again.
