BurnSnapSnap

Barney always taught me three things: 1) Love thy neighbor 2) Thou shalt not kill and 3) Everybody is special. Now the first two might have been Jesus, but number 3 is just bullshit.

I guess we are all, to an extent, different. i don't look like anybody but my family and I'm not identical to anybody who could be called 'my twin'. But goddamn if I don't feel so bland. There are people who are really good at what they do, but somewhere out there is one person who can operate at the same level as the first person. There is only one 'best' in the world and only he can truly feel special. The rest of us just have to sit on our hands until somebody in a big, violet, prehistoric carnivore tells us that we're "special".

Special how? There are these people who try to prove that they're special. You know who I'm talking about. Artists. don't get me wrong. I like art. Pretty pictures, skillful sculptures, masterpiece theatre, beautiful symphonies...bullshit. Short stories, rock songs, photographs. Bullshit. Giant pizza's, videogames, and sex in the park. All bullshit. But you know what i hate most of all? Poetry.

Poetry has got to be the biggest crock of bullshit of all time. Right after modern art, and that's saying quite a bit. When you can throw a bunch of words together and draw imaginary lines between coincidental words, accidental phrasing, and haphazard placement then you, my friend, have got yourself an imaginary artform. It's just so full of shit, I can't stand it.

I guess that's why I hate art so much. It has too much potential to be faked. To be bluffed. To be exaggerated and overrated. If you took that away, I wouldn't think too unhighly of it. But the fact is, art is abused, harassed, and, unfortunately, spoken for. Art is not special. Just like each and every single one of us.

Again?

Pat followed the yarn rapidly now. He was frightened, being led by a hunter much to dispicable and cunning to be human. He was sprinting now, and panting hard. He had to go on; the curiosity was killing him. He came to a clearing in the bushes. In the middle of the little grove was a glass elevator.

'What is this doing here?' thought Pat. But yet again, he asked himself, what was he doing here? He pressed the up button. The elevator dinged automatically as he stepped inside. He was nearly knocked off his feet as the glass vessel rocketed upward. The g-forces were almost too much as he reached for the 'stop' button.

Pat slammed on the tiny, silver disk and the elevator screeched to a halt. The doors opened and Pat crawled outside. In a corner by a full length mirror, pat found a box. The box had reindeer and snowman patterns on it and was topped off with a big red bow. He carefully undid the package, placing the big red bow sticky-side in on the mirror.

As he lifted the lid he gasped in amazement. Here was his sweater, which was destroyed all so long ago. The yarn, he supposed, was from somebody he knew quite well... Before the mental picture of the person popped into his brain, two armed guards came out of a hidden door and shot their pistols at him, which popped into his brain.

What's This?

Pat stared at the trail of yarn he was following. It disappeared for long distances in many places, but it had always managed to pop up next to him. He thought about how when he first saw it, he picked up the litter and threw it away. Upon finding more yarn, he did likewise. But after so much yarn it got ridiculous. So he just walked away. It didnt matter though, it was always there. The whole park was lined with yarn. As he was deciding on whether or not to find the source, he suddenly felt like he was being watched. It was a faint feeling, but it was there. Whatever it was, it was very crafty to elude Pat for so long with such sparce hiding places. Yet again he was busy daydreaming, so it wouldnt be too hard to get so close. Pat played it cool, he felt it was the best thing to do. So he just walked casually on the sidewalk, whistling as he went. It was going his direction anyway.

Windy Out

As Pat sat on the ledge he began to ponder. What did it all mean? The fruit loops, the hat, the bracelet, the package...what did they all signify? How did they all come together? He just didnt know.

He followed the trail of the rat down the wall. It was really agile. I mean, it was a straight up wall. Some sort of spiderrat. He heard of them growing human ears on rats that could be used later for earless people (?), but spider feet? Maybe.

As Pat sneezed, he tottered on the ledge of the 20th story of the Sears Tower.

Errbody

So Pat was out and about one day. Just doing the normal stuff. Rambling, talking, avoiding crappy cars, when all of a sudden it hit him. The Red Sox won the world series. Bush won the election. And he was getting his pansy ass kicked in his sport of choice. The world was coming to an end. He looked up into the sky and he saw it. Giant crows falling from the sky. Destroying everything in their path.

Pat ran to the supermarket. He looted all the canned goods and water and picked up a mad magazine to pass the time over his lifespan. He ran to the fallout shelter, conveniently located 45 stories below the earth's crust. He didnt bring anybody along because he figured that he'd get annoyed with them and probably eat them. So he sat and waited.

It had been almost 10 hours when Pat ran out of canned soup. He didnt like stealing so he only got 2 cans. He didnt know how long apocalypses usually lasted but he was sure it was over by now. He lifted the lid on his shelter and saw the destruction. There were survivors, but they were generally twitching and yelling on the ground, trapped under large pieces of concrete. He ignored their pathetic cries and turned to more pressing matters. Where were all the Froot Loops?

In his haste he forgot to secure the Froot Loops and had no clue where they were. He searched round and round until he found some in the ruins of the old mortuary. How appropriate. Cos Pat choked on a Froot Loop and all the dying people laughed when his lifeless body hit the floor.