I Write Stuff

[FYNDR]

Please enjoy this blatant advertisement and visit my MySpace page at http://myspace.com/humorandastoundingtales; I write humour articles for the high school paper and post them on my blog. Feel free to check it out. Also feel free to ignore this desperate cry for attention.

[Commodore]

i'll click on a myspace link when hell freezes over. nothing personal mind you.

[Zenith Nadir]

what commodore said

i'm sorry, but it's one of the few sites i actively avoid whenever possible

(see also: ebaumsworld, 4chan)

[FYNDR]

Very well, then.



Here is a recent example of an article:

Entire Country Mysteriously Travels Through Time One Hour
An alarming exposé on Daylight Savings Time by Mike Seaholm

In today's world, there are many things that adversely affect our everyday lives: terrorism, poverty, country music, etc. However, I have recently rediscovered an age-old foe that puts our country's moral and societal well being in constant jeopardy. I refer to, of course, Daylight Savings Time. In this month's article, I hope to prove that Daylight Savings Time (or DST, as it is called on the streets) is the product of children's nightmares, forced upon the masses in order to slowly wear away at their collective sanity. Also, it has something to do with sunlight, though I'm a little sketchy on the details. Despite this, I will report on this matter with the utmost authority.

Daylight Savings Time was originally thought up by Benjamin "White Lightning" Franklin, who - and I'm not making this up - wrote about it as a joke in a humorous letter to the French, suggesting that this would keep them from burning so many candles. Knowing that most candles in France were used to create a heightened sense of atmosphere in the country's many bistros (seventeen bistros per square foot of French soil, on average), Ben Franklin was sure that the French ambassadors whom he was addressing would, as he put it, "swoon to the ground in a fit of 'ROFLs'". However, this harmless joke became chilling reality when Daylight Savings Time was first enacted in Germany during World War I. Basically everything bad came out of Germany in those days, though this has changed since the invention of braunschweiger, the delicious liver-based snack treat. Since then, many other countries, including our own, have senselessly adopted the concept of saving daylight, not to be confused with the James Bond film The Living Daylights, starring Timothy "I'm Not Even as Cool as Roger Moore. Roger Moore, For Cripe's Sake!" Dalton.

The concept of Daylight Savings Time is relatively simple and is illustrated by the mnemonic "spring forward, fall back" to remind people of which way to change their clocks. This can lead to some confusion, however, since you can "fall forward", such as if you were to trip on a rock, or "spring back", like if you were startled by some sort of natural anomaly, such as an earthquake or Michael Jackson. At any rate, when Daylight Savings Time rolls around, people are supposed to set their clocks an hour ahead, meaning that they lose an hour of sleep. Now, one may argue that we gain an hour back in the fall and that the whole situation evens out. However, close observation shows that Daylight Savings Time does not actually give hours back. We just perpetually lose hours, much like how politicians slowly lose mental acuity during their term in office. If the rate for both is the same, then we can see that this is a very serious problem as far as Daylight Savings Time is concerned.

Daylight Savings Time causes some obvious problems. If, for instance, you were a businessperson who travels around the world, the various time zones and policies on Daylight Savings Time may conflict in such a manner that you actually lose an hour of real time. This creates a rip in the space/time continuum, which almost always means a sudden influx of evil tentacle monsters. This is only very rarely a good thing.

Reality-bending time fractures aside, there is also some confusion about when the actual shift in hours takes place. Common sense tells us that it should occur at midnight, the morning that Daylight Savings Time begins. Because this would make too much sense, the government decided that it should occur at 2:00 am. Also, federal law states that you must change all your clocks at exactly 2 in the morning, which is both inconvenient and, unless there are time rips nearby, quite impossible. Failure to comply with this results in a sudden-death match of Dance Dance Revolution against a member of the CIA. If you lose, the entire Secret Service will laugh at you. The shame will be an indelible mark upon your soul.

On a lighter note, Daylight Savings Time currently gives us more sunlight in the evenings, allowing people to move about freely without fear of vampire attacks. This is really the only benefit of Daylight Savings Time, so we might as well take full advantage of it. This can, however, prove to be problematic for albinos and shadows, both of which immediately dematerialize in the presence of sunlight. Luckily for you European readers, the endless line of French bistros spanning the continent provides an ideal form of shade.

And here is an example of a humorous piece of narrative fiction for the April Fool's Day edition of the paper:

It was a dark night in a city that never sleeps. The wailing sirens of a passing police cruiser announced that there was once again crime on the streets of Tomah. Criminals abound in this sprawling metropolis despite the heavy police taskforce that routinely monitors the city. That's where I come in. My name's Brock Sparks, and I'm a private eye.

In a city where crime is practically an organized sport, there is no lack of cases for a detective. That's why when a tall, beautiful brunette charged through my door with sparkling eyes and a head full of bad memories, I was none too surprised. She was the kind of dame that would break your heart, probably with a sledgehammer, or maybe even a wheat thresher if she was feeling bold. She had lips like cherries and legs that went from here to New Jersey - not literally, I mean. That'd just be weird.

"I have a case for you, Mr. Sparks," she said huskily, sitting down at one of my world-famous chairs. Her voice was in a dainty Slavic accent, her speech delightfully incomprehensible. I decided to use the ol' Sparks charm on her to "break the ice", as the kids say.

"Ah… what?" I stammered smoothly, bewildered at this eastern European angel who had fallen into my midst.

"My father's priceless ornamental egg has been stolen," she intoned, her lips caressing yet mangling every syllable. "And I want you to help me find it."

She crossed her legs, inadvertently and seductively displaying her bare ankle. Suavely maintaining my composure, I swooned on the spot, knocking my head against a wastepaper basket as I fell. When I came to, I found an envelope on my desk containing ten thousand Russian rubles, which, given the social and economic stability of the former Soviet Union, is worth about $10. Since this is easily double my usual rate, I decided to take the case.

My first stop was the center of all criminal activity in Tomah: StrikeZone Bowling Alley. I sat down at a nearby lane, waiting for my informant, Wally. He was busy racking up points a few lanes down, impressing two young Pollyannas with his bowling prowess. With his final ball, he broke a hundred points, leading to much applause and the exchange of phone numbers. At last he came up to me, flexing his muscles in impressive fashion and donning a pair of sunglasses despite the evident lack of sunlight.

Thinking of showing him up at his own game, I quickly brandished my badge. "Brock Sparks, Private Eye," I announced confidently.

"Mr. Sparks, that badge is made out of orange card stock," Wally observed.

I mumbled something about budget cuts and asked Wally about the egg. He said he knew nothing about it, but mentioned that StrikeZone had "killer pizza fries". It turned out, however, that these "fries" were merely square cuts of pizza. Disheartened, I headed back to the office.

As I made my way back, I realized that I was being followed. Whipping around, I saw the silhouette of a hired goon leap on top of me. He hammered on my spine as if it was a piano and he was a stockier, much angrier version of Beethoven. When the beating subsided, my assailant said something to me I would never forget:

"Your rent's a week late, Mr. Sparks."

I assured my landlord that the check was in the mail and stumbled home.

The next evening, I decided to travel the bleak alleyways near the public library, certain that I would stumble upon a lead. Normally I carry some sort of weapon, but because of recent budget cuts my only line of defense is a BIC ballpoint pen. As I stepped into the alleyway with pen in hand, my eyes registered a swath of light emanating from a nearby window. Like a panther on tranquilizers, I slowly and stealthily crept towards the glass and, to my surprise, saw the ornamental egg resting on a silk cushion in the middle of the room. The case was closed.

As I opened the door to my office cradling the prized egg, I noticed a letter written in blocky, graceful handwriting flutter to the ground. I read it aloud:

"Dear Mr. Sparks, my father has found his egg. He left it in a dish of caviar at the Minister's mansion during an outrageous dinner party. All my love, Mysterious Russian Brunette."

So her father had the egg the whole time. That explained why the police sirens were now blaring outside my office building. I should have known something was up with the egg in the alley when the alarms sounded and the guy dressed like a security guard started yelling at me. After clearing up the misunderstanding with the police and receiving a severe whipping, I decided to relocate my office to Sparta, where the population is apparently only 300. Still, I am not averse to dispensing my own brand of justice to the lawless city of Tomah; there will always be a call to action for Brock Sparks, Private Eye.

[superbowl shuffle]

I'm no Brit, but I can tell you that is better writing than you would find in a lot of high school newspapers.

Keep it up, seriously, because college is going to rape you and unless you are in the habit of writing you may not continue to pregress as a writer.

[Commodore]

that's the truth. I certainly know college students with half the writing skills you have it's sad really, but whatever I guess.

[Quantum P.]

Nice humor! I especially liked the second one.

[Zenith Nadir]

i think these are pretty good

[FYNDR]

Ladies and gentlemen, just look at these reviews:

Nice humor! I especially liked the second one.

i think these are pretty good

I'm no Brit, but... college is going to rape you

Side note: when posting the first article, I noticed a creepy phantom picture of Rolf show up for what seemed to be no reason. Then I switched 'ROFL' to all caps and he disappeared into the abyss.

[Commodore]

you should change it back.

[bustaballs]

Those are pretty cool. You like adverbs.


My sociology teacher told me DST had nothing to do with energy conservation and was actually about getting people out and spending more money. I don't know what to believe anymore. =(

[Zandor 12]

I just now got around to reading these, and they're pretty good - I actually laughed out loud a few times. One thing I noticed, though - there's not really anything natural about the anomaly that is Michael Jackson. Still though, great work!

[gingermuffins]

Mr. Sparks, that badge is made out of orange card stock

:-)