Bogus Lies (and) Ordinary Greatness

I started, what I call, articlulate writing years and years ago. Some of it was free associate writing, automatic writing, or what ever you chose to call it. It was, and still is, a fun outlet for me. Some of it, no one has ever read before. A lot of it .... maybe nobody should...

Thursday, December 13, 2012

A Brown Cleveland

A    W I N D Y    L O S S

The wind? The wind. The wind! The wind… ah, the wind. I was never so conscience of the wind. It wasn't unbearably strong, or cold for that matter. I just noticed the wind especially because it was… different. That's all, just different. How, I'm not sure. Trying to describe how the wind felt that day would be like trying to explain the feeling of love. Ah, but these unexplainables were so dissimilar. Unlike love, I understood that wind. I couldn't describe it, but yes, I understood the evilness of that wind. Just as you don't have to be a philosopher to feel love. I understood that wind without ever having felt it before.
Evil like no man ever knew. Like no man could ever know. Without blood nor flesh, soul or heart. Evil could now be conceived to its fullest extent. To feel all the destruction possible, without ears or eyes, and whisper it in the night. The wind did not and could not talk, and yet was heard. It could not see, yet always hit the weakest side of the house and blew off the leaf with the thinnest stem. Lacking flesh and mass, not a day went by that its presence wasn't felt.
To blow from seemingly no source, to move about freely with no aim but its own ...
To be the first life giving gasp of a new born: to be part of the relief and joy after finishing a race; to pillow and support huge D-C 10'S; to give each bird it's flight; to cool a hot brow on a hot summer's day; to glide a ball, through the sky, with which the children play; to play with a kite above the trees; to carry a child's escaped balloon up and off to some place unknown; but also having the power and will to destroy any town.
To some days relax and simply play dead, to roll ocean waves and watch the seagulls overhead, to fly freely, to know no bounds, to have sinned, to shake and crumble, setting whole cities to rubble, to be the wind. The wind.
Tonight the wind is evil. Tomorrow sane. To be anything. At any time. Except plain.
Yes, the wind. It was the wind on that special night that caused such calamity and pain. A stream of oxygen and carbon dioxide molecules that had such a fateful result on the actions of a few, but the lives and hearts of many. An absolute wind that brought a final climax down upon the heads of those expecting more. Without wind this day might have ended better…
This wind had directly caused the watering of many people’s eyes by irritation, in a way not so subtle that had stopped progress short of reaching the goal. These tears were not from irritation, but from sadness. Tears wasted on grass that didn't ever need watering.
The loneliest creature in the Universe feel down to his knees with head in hands before the people that had put so much trust and hope in him. They offered him no condolence as they could only think of that wind. The dreaded wind! The wind that blew in that lonely man's face and carried his tears away in the breeze.
The man was now alone. Once the center of attention, now he stood alone. He hated the wind the most. For it was the wind that had stolen the chance of heroism from his grasp. Blame it on the wind. The wind, how it blew so cold today…
It was the wind that blew his straight, seemingly good kick back and stopped it from crossing over the goal posts, dropping inches short. The kick was strong and true, but the wind prevailed in the end as the football fluttered short.
On the last play of the game the field goal that would have won it was not to be. For the wind. Without eyes, ears, mouth, or feelings, it was the wind that made the choice. The wind chose the victor on that cold day in January and sent the home team and fans away with heavy hearts.

Intercepting your affection,
     èim  Uhr
P.S. I threw a party the other day. It was an all sports party, and all had a good time. I pitched my spiel about getting rich by raising foul (fowl) to the baseball players, but they walked away as I struck out. I passed a stock tip to the football players and they rushed right out to contact their brokers. The tiddlywinks player flipped when he received my invitation and thus couldn't make it suffering from a slipped disc. The hockey players checked out and made passes to the waitress, who claimed they had no goal. Polo players rode by but only waved from their cars, claiming they were hoarse. Some bowlers rolled in telling the sad story of their days in the gutter. Basketball players dribbled wine from their glasses and food traveled from their mouths to the floor as they talked. The only really bad thing that happened to upset me was when I served my best wine to the tennis players and they found fault with it, but no love was lost. The swim team came in and got carried away doing breast strokes, which was okay by me but the husbands of some of the women didn't like it. It was a party that lasted to the wee hours of the morning, except all the gymnastic people insisted on leaving precisely at 10. Some very suspicious money was changed hands but the monopoly players claimed to know nothing of it ­– yet were seen making token gestures of peace to the chess players, who had quite a knight in my humble castle. The baseball players, and basketball players dramatically ended the party by fighting over what a foul was. Finally a hunter ended the discussion by shooting them (the bird), and all went home happy. And so I said my goodbyes to a lot of gamey people.

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Answers to life's questions

I Thought I would take a moment to answer a few Emails here.

(Keep in mind my email is static – I’m not always sure if the email response is to my Blog or my Website… or it’s just spam that I like to keep as personal mail just so I have think I have more than I really do.)

Question: How many words are in Moby Dick?
Answer: Well, I got to the end of the book and was at 212,002 when I hiccupped and lost my place… so maybe it’s just a little more than that. And no, don’t worry, I’ll never write anything that long. Just remember War and Peace is more than 550,000 words.

Q: How long have you been crazy?
A: I have never officially been diagnosed as being crazy. It’s just a place I sometimes like to go, especially in my writing. It’s a nice place to visit but I ….

Q: How much of this stuff is the truth you write?
A: What really is truth?  All my writing is totally true – most of it is just based in an alternate reality that has nothing to do with this one.

Q: My husband is divorcing his wife – do I still have to have contact with her?
A: Huh? That doesn’t seem to make any sense. Let me think for a moment.
(One moment later…) The answer is no. I think if she’s divorcing, then she has to leave the harem.

Q: I went to your website and on your favorite page –the music – are you kidding me? It’s dizzying! What is really your favorite style or artist?
A: Well, actually you should be a little more dizzy. I really don’t have much Classical or Jazz there, and those are two areas of music that I have embraced in the past (as well as New Age and Spirituality).
But as far as my ultimate favorite style, it would have to be alternative. And my favorite group would be The Cure.
But I grew up on early Elton John and I still think he is the King( ), even if his more recent stuff feels so watered down.
Of course it goes without saying that the Beatles are the ultimate group and an influence on everything else.
Then groups like Supertramp, Alan Parsons, the Moody Blues, and Klaatu raised me to levels that made everyday life seem mundane by comparison. While, at times, Klaatu can be a bit campy – that is part of their fun and their message. I still think that Klaatu’s second album “Hope” is one of the best ever. Abby Road (Beatles), Captain Fantastic (Elton John), Wish (Cure), 1st Album (Jars of Clay), Crime of the Century (Supertramp) are some more off the top of my head. There are many I am leaving out…
Lately I’ve been listening to “Minus the Bear” from a recommendation from the great Alternative Press.
I believe that music is the backdrop to life…

Q: All your links! I never know what to click on or where they’re going. It drives me crazy! How about a better idea of where the links are and what’s going to come up when I click on something?
A: I love to be the driving force of your craziness. I just hope to provide a scenic journey.
\We all need to be a little more crazy/


If you want me to keep updating you on your questions here just keep sending me more Email.

Feel free to follow me, although I realize that you have to be nuts to follow a blind squirrel.  (Maybe that’s why he never finds any nuts, because they’re always following behind him)


Monday, October 15, 2012

Penmanship of fools

This is  a rough continuation of last months piece...

Costly Pen

What did one balloon say to the other balloon?
"The rising cost of living is killing me!"
Ha, Hal But inflation is no laughing matter. I can’t believe the way prices have been rising. Even yeast keeps going up and up.
Inflation is out of hand, I know. I was just into this discount store, which used to be a little dime store the last time I was there. I went to purchase some pens. Five or so years ago I bought ten pens in this same store, when it was a dime store.
We used to have dime stores, and now our “big discount” stores are dollar stores. That’s an inflation rate of 1000%!
So after running low on ink I took some money and entered the store expecting to buy more pens. But I couldn’t find that ten pen for a dollar special they had last time. And this time I was smart enough to bring a dollar and five cents, the five cents extra for tax, which I managed not to have the last time. Then I had gotten past by telling the counter girl I would bring the five cents next time. But this time I still ran into trouble again. My ten pens for a dollar special was nowhere to be found. So I looked around for six or so pens, anticipating paying fifty cents, hence enabling me to buy two sets. But the cheapest bargain I could find was one pen for fifty-three cents, and even these pens had ink seeping out their backs and were half out of ink. Subtract from this the half of the ink that always ends up on my hands and I would be getting a quarter of pen’s ink to put to use. This didn’t sound like a deal to me. So I went up to the stock boy, who was marking prices, and asked him about the ten pen special. I don’t know if I forgot to wipe the toothpaste off of my mouth that morning or what, because he just laughed at me. 1 was not in a humorous mood.
In my anger I finally found a decent pen for a buck and stormed up to the checkout line. I placed the pen down and handed my dollar and five cents to the lady, somewhat older than the girl who was here last time, I would guess by about five or so years.
She reached out for my money, gazing deeply into my eyes, and for a minute I thought it was love at first sight when she said, "Haven't I seen you before?"
I got all choked up, but before I could say something witty like, "Um… no, I don't think so, I usually dress with my shades pulled down," she barked out "That'll be One dollar and seven cents!"
I handed her my dollar and nickel, not fully in control of my senses. I was busy contemplating what style wedding ring she would prefer, as her voice rang in my head, and I did not hear the words, just the melody.
"You’re two cents short," she said as I started to come back to reality.
I managed a muffled, "Wha ... " as the ring for her finger seemed to be growing in size.
She looked somewhat upset. "That's One dollar and seven cents — seven cents tax, and you only gave me One Dollar and five cents!" she spat out, her enunciation very clear even through her spittle. “I need another two cents.”
I could see the ring I planned to give her in my dreams WAS growing. It was taking the shape of a noose and coming for my head, I knew that only quick talking and a little luck could save me now.
"Bu… But I don't… " I stammered in my most suave turn of phrase, as my hands dug deep into my empty pockets, feeling only the lint there. I prayed for a lot of luck.
"Wait a minute... " she said with an air of recognition, "Now I remember. Five years ago you were short five cents on a pack of ten pens special."
She reached over the cash register and pushed buttons for what seemed to be an eternity. "That'll be seven more cents please." she smiled.
I carefully reached my hand up to the counter…
"And you can't get away this time by saying you'll bring the money tomorrow because today is my last day ... " she rambled on…
...1 grabbed hold of the pen with trembling fingers and took off in a full sprint for the exit. I ran through three security guards and a cop in the street as a crazed lady screamed bloody murder behind me.
"Stop thief! Help! Police! A robbery, help!” she wailed on.
I gave the policeman a straight-arm as I headed out the door, kicking the gun from his hand as he pulled it from his belt. I shoved the pen into my pocket and ran off down the street. People were chasing and hollering, dogs were barking and sirens were wailing as I made a clean get-a-way.
I never stopped running until I was into my house and safe from pursuers. I plopped down on the nearest chair and pulled out my "hot" pen. I had paid A dollar and five cents for a pen that had let-loose during the chase, and now my pocket was stained with wet ink. Well, black goes with anything. Good thing it wasn’t a blue pen. Even the drops that fell upon my white pants really don’t look too bad. 
This was a pen that I had risked life and limb for as I ran from the law in a narrow escape. I made it, but the pen didn't.
And to think now I had to go back to that store to demand a refund for the defective pen.
I tried the pen anyways and it at least writes (as you can see), though most of its insides are still in my pocket.
So not knowing how long this pen will last will force me to keep my hands clean and save and scrape until I can gather together enough money to be able to go back to that store to purchase another pen (the lady did say it was her last day). So I keep my fingers crossed, hoping the pen will hold out, and I'll make my articles as short as possible to try to save ink. So I would end it here ... but I still have so much to say. The story goes on, how I wish it did end here.
I went to bed that night dreaming of murderers and car thieves. I hardly was able to get any sleep what with all that running.
And it wasn't until late this morning, after I was up for over an hour, that I finally got fully awoke when I opened up my mail. I found a letter from "that" store with a credit card in it.
A pamphlet also came with the letter, describing all the great uses of my new "Super Card" and ways to spend more money with it.
The smile faded, rather quickly, from my face when a small piece of paper fell from the envelope. As I bent to pick it up I could see that it was a bill.
Yes, seven cents was charged to my account. But then I noticed the total due at the bottom and that smile that left me before came back… upside down.
"There must be some mistake!" I thought aloud.
I waited for an answer, but didn’t know what to say…
I owed three dollars and fifty-eight cents! I went for my coat, psyching myself up to go back to that store to demand an explanation for that extra three dollars and fifty-one cents.
Then I noticed that the total did add up to three dollars and fifty-eight cents! It was a good thing I had noticed this before I marched back down to that store and made a fool of myself.
Sure, they were only charging me seven cents from the other day. But then there is the tax on that seven cents, which brings the total up to eight cents. The other three dollars and fifty cents is for the service charge.

                                                  A credit to be yours,

èim  Uhr

Now I don't have to worry about having the correct change when I go to that          store. I can always charge my pens. 

           Are pens a Major purchase?

Thursday, September 20, 2012

Is there a Reason To Write?

Reason To Write

Is my writing all in vain?
Well, it is true that writing makes my heart beat. But does anyone else really care? Probably not…
But does that stop me?
Should it?
…Yes – But will it?
If you see more writing following, you can assume that it didn’t. But let’s analyze whether or not it should stop me. Then I will decide if it will.
If I have one, or maybe even two, readers who have read at least one article before without gagging, then, surely it would be reason enough to go on. But at this point we are assuming that this isn’t so – and we are probably safe in making this assumption. Even if we aren’t totally safe in drawing this conclusion that I have no readers, let’s just do so to make it more fun.
So now that we (?) have established the fact that I have no readers we are one step closer to determining whether I should go on or give up right here.
So maybe it should be assumed that I should’ve already lost my will to go on. After all what is the sense in a writer writing if a reader isn’t reading what the writer has been writing in hopes to have readers read what he has written. Am I right in writing believing that the only reason a writer writes is to have readers read him? Maybe not in all cases. Because in certain circumstances the casual consensus is that curtain calls are considered contrary to the conventional caliber of cases where cheering can cheapen cherished classics.
I think the main reason I write is for therapy of the soul. Writing focuses my cosmic illusions of space and the vacuums of the mind into forms none telepathic, and through sensations in my temples and in ways to guide my fingers, thus enabling me to control said fingers to place these transmissions down on paper in the two dimensional world of common folk, enabling them to somewhat relate to the though processes of a much higher form.
It would also really be nice to have one or, getting really wild, two readers. I mean, so what if the whole world could understand the complex workings of an advanced mind if there is nobody there to read them. Although writing is a form of self-expression, what good is it if there is nobody there to see my expressions?
So strike down that last (and only) reason to write.
Is there another reason I write that I can dig up from the recesses of my mind? This should be easy to find because my mind is always on recess.
So as I brush back the cobwebs to search for other meanings to my methods, I remember the thing that started me writing in the first place. The local Dime Store was running a sale, and amidst a table of junk with wrappers torn, and boxes bruised and faded, I came across a pack of ten pens. Ten Papermates for Fifty cents. I reached into my pocket to find two quarters, and I knew, from that moment on, that something cosmic was happening in the fabric of time. The Universe would never be the same!
With ten pens sitting on my nightstand I eventually took to making scribbles on paper to waste some of the ink on hand. But my advanced mind soon grew bored of the simplistic subtleties of common swirls and masses of stickmen armies. Circles only went backwards or forwards, and upon completion it was hard to tell a forward one from a backward one, even though I spent much time alkalizing them. Stick figures can only have a smile, a frown, or a straight line across their faces. And their bodies are all skinny. I’ve never seen a fat stick man. Sure, use a magic marker and you may get one that’s well-built, but you still would be stretching things to call him fat. A stout stickman is rare. When you go past the point of stout stickmen you’re getting into abstract art, and I lose interest and patience.
So after a few years I grew bored with scribbles. But when I finally reached a point where I could not tolerate one more scribble nor coordinate one more stick man, I found that I still had one more pen on hand. Most of the ink from all the pens was actually still on hand, for I tend to get more ink on my hand than the paper. But eventually it washes off.
Could I let this last pen go to waste? Did I waste my hard earned money when I could have settled for nine pens? Did I waste someone else’s precious time and effort in creating this pen? Would the manufacturer, whose product was going to waste, seek personal revenge on me? Would that last, lonely pen throw it’s insides all over my drawer in frustration? Would I wake one morning dead, the police finding the pen thrust through my heart? Who would the main suspect be – the pen, the manufacturer, or my future readers?
I took that pen, fearing all of the above, and scratched meaningless words onto a paper in straight lines all the way across it and continued for the whole length of the page. I called myself a Writer, because I don’t want to be known as a wrong Uhr.
So there you have it. That is the reason for my writing. The facts are all in – now, should I quit or continue? Seeing that my pen is almost out of ink… I think that it’s time to quit.
Ultimately the decision comes down, not to a lack of thoughts and subjects, nor to a lack of readers… but a lack of ink.
Entropy wins out in the end.
Yes, this is my last article…

                                                                       Farwellingly Yours,
       èim  Uhr

P.S.   I’m going to take a trip down to that dime store,
          if it’s still around. I’m bringing fifty-three cents.

Friday, August 17, 2012

A blast from the past...


I was driving down the road the other day, when I flipped out. It wasn't a new song on the radio. It was the curb that caused it. Before I knew it I was doing summersaults.
My car landed right side up and I staggered out. I, literally, spit glass out of my mouth as I gazed disbelievingly at my car. People stopped and were asking me questions, but I just alternated nodding and shaking my head without listening to them.
My car ... me?
Not a bruise. Not a cut. The glass didn't even cut the inside of my mouth. Not one thing was wrong with me… No, I wasn't wearing my seat belt.
As my brain finally started excepting messages my eyes were sending it, I noticed my windshield lying a few feet from the car, shattered, but nearly whole. My newly bought side mirrors were, naturally, broken off. There was mud allover my car as luckily I had rolled on grass instead of pavement. The passenger side of the roof was smashed in a bit, my door was bent in, and the right rear fender was smashed.
Someone said I must have been listening to the radio to hit a rock and roll.
Somehow I got the idea of trying to start my car. Since no damage was done to the hood or anything under it, I got the car started without any trouble.
I ended up driving the car home, with no windshield in below freezing temperatures. I shook all the way home, partially from the cold and partially from shock.
One the way home I thought of something that Winston Churchill once said, one of my favorite quotes—

 "Men occasionally stumble over the truth, but most of them pick themselves up and hurry off as if nothing happened."

I made it home without getting pulled over, even though it's illegal to drive without a windshield.
I can still remember (in flashes) that sensation of turning upside down and rolling. Things flashed by so fast. I saw parts of my life in quick, unrelated glimpses. Then, in mid roll, I thought to myself, "This is a dream."
Microseconds later I realized it wasn't a dream, that my car was rolling over and I was in it, and that I would be late for work. I wondered why it rolled. Was I rolling up a hill? Through lanes of traffic? Was I dying? Had I ever lived? Was my car paid off? Did I have clean underwear?
A feeling soon to be forgot, but a time long remembered. If the feelings that one has during an uncontrollable moment in one's life could be totally recalled, I doubt if many mistakes would be repeated. But the only thing that is truly remembered are the after affects, and they never seem to be quite as bad.
Yes, how easily feelings are forgot.
Trying times can test us and show what we're made of. I'm not sure what I'm made of, but I know that I don't like tests.
It sounds unusual, but I think Cicero made a lot of sense when he said,
 "There is something pleasurable in calm remembrance of a past sorrow."
Maybe it's just the fact that the adversity has been survived, and it makes present adversities seem conquerable. Something Friedrich Nietzsche said helps shed light into Cicero's statement:
       "What does not destroy me makes me strong."
You are stronger from living through past sorrows. Also past troubles seen through memory's eye always are less sharp and out of focus then is the pain of present problems.
Remember the lesson of the day — Brakes, steering and even good friends can fail. To remain strong without becoming bitter is the trick. Friends don't care about your failures, and they care only to beat your successes. The best one can ask of a friend is to tell the truth when you need it, also to lie when you need it, and to listen nearly as often as they talk. Many times I find myself praying like Marshall de Villars.         — "God save me from my friends
                  I can protect myself from my enemies."
I expect distress from my enemies but when it comes by way of friends it is unbearable. I guess I just have to learn something that Agnes Macphail put well by saying,
“Do not rely completely on any other human being, however dear. We meet all life's greatest tests alone."

I guess when you have news that makes your life miserable the best thing a friend can do, from his point of view, is to exclude you from his life so you don't make him share in your misery.
"Heaven for climate, hell for company." — James M. Barrie.
Half my friends are in heaven, and the rest just have their heads in the clouds.

Dearly befriended,
èim  Uhr

P.S. It's funny the way
       one thinks of friends
                          in times of sorrow. I
                          can usually think of
                          them, but I can't talk
                          to them. 

Drive me away                                       RIP or RID(rest in drive)

                            We all crash alone

Friday, July 20, 2012

Windows to the Soul

Windows of the Soul
Windows of the Soul

Windows. I have always loved windows. Standing in one atmosphere, gazing out at another environment that may be totally different. Removed, unconnected. Like looking out at a blizzard from a cozy warm home, the totally white frozen obliteration contrasting to the warmth and varied colors within. A thin, clear membrane separating you from frostbite. A thin clear line between Nevada and Alaska. It’s like looking at an historic painting that you feel so distant from – like instead of gazing at another time, you are looking into another dimension.
Sometimes when I’m depressed I can gaze out a window and imagine another life. It’s always nice to put glass between your pane [sic].
Just as children growing up strive to separate themselves from grownups, so we in general as humans are prone to feel the need to separate ourselves from history. Denying past errors. Maybe that’s why windows dominate today’s society, since we like separation, with windows we can at least be conscious of the division and pretend to care. (Kind of like seeing starving third world children on television and feeling compelled to send off a dollar or two to alleviate our guilt, pretending that we're not separated from their blight.) We air condition against the warmth outside, just as we heat when it is cold outside. Man – always trying to be separate from, trying to change reality. Never satisfied with the way things are.
For it is the change that always stands out. The difference is what’s important. If almost all birds were either blue or red, I’m sure that it would be the brown one’s that we considered beautiful.
We climb mountains with great delight in being able to look down into valleys. We live in the valley in order to have a view of the majestic mountains.
And it is with the help of windows that make all this so obvious. Windows let us see our separation, make us aware of the modifications we have made. Windows are constant reminders of man’s attempt to turn reality up-side-down.
Windows are barriers that at least let light get through so that we can fool ourselves into thinking there is no separation. Thus we can say, “I live in Moscow” or “I live in Cleveland” or “I live in Chambly,” instead of “I live in a 70 degree heated/air-conditioned bubble – just like you and most everybody else.”
We play with reality until reality loses it’s meaning. Is reality the inside of the cage or the world outside? It depends on which side one has his perspective from. Whether they are bars of steel or piled up bars of gold, poor are affected as well as the wealthy - as your personal prison can be from theft as well as riches. Money can separate us as it stacks up around us forming an inpenitratible barrier that no one can reach through. Seclusion can be our own private jail. The rich as well as the poor can experience alienation from society. Lock me away, or shun me. Observe me only through windows. Keep your distance! Not like a lion in a cage, but more that of a fish in an aquarium. You could never truly know my world. My glass separates universes, dimensions. My glass is a bubble that surrounds me as I float in and out of your reality.
It is sometimes said that separation is an illusion – but in reality anything and everything but separation is the illusion. Each object, each person, is made up of individual cells. Each cell in your body has as much connection to each other as do the planets in a solar system.
Space. Space is the truth. There is space between everything. The only connection between us is space. The Universe is essentionally empty. It is a vacuum by any standard. Even a pane of glass is not really solid. A neutrino passing through a window has a very small chance of colliding with any molecule in the glass – most assuredly it will pass right through without any effect. It would be almost impossible for it to strike anything.
Although you can see a completely different world outside your window, you have little chance of having any effect on it. Of all the animals on Earth it’s the human beings who are known as the creators on the planet, always building things, but in actuality our creations are small and usually temporary – just waiting for entropy to overtake them. As the debate rages on whether we are destroying the planet I think that we are locked in a perspective that is far from reality. I’m not sure we are as of yet able to destroy the Earth, we are only able to change it – possibly destroying the atmosphere and any possible living conditions. But the Earth, in one form or another, will survive. So the only thing we would probably be destroying is ourselves, along with a few billion animals. I think that long after we’re gone the Earth will repair itself. Maybe then the next incarnation of life will get it right.
Maybe we’re just like microbes in a Petri dish. The experiment of life on this planet may have passed its half-life. Maybe the scientist running this experiment has as much feelings for us as we do for mold spores. Possibly we are just a little experiment in filling up some space. We take up about as much space in the Universe as we do time in it’s history. We would not even register as a blip on the radar screen. We are dandruff on the head of the Universe, exaggerating our self worth. Is it man’s deterrent or his blessing to be so self-centered? Man’s ego is what has caused him to expand beyond any reasonable measure. In this microcosm, man is king. Man’s inflated self-importance is what makes him rise above the other microbes in the Petri dish.
The ultimate question is whether he can rise up enough through his own compost to really communicate with the scientist running this experiment and possible save himself with something more than complaints or simple pleas of help.

                                                                                    éim Uhr

P.S.   It is said that a millennium is just a moment to the Universe. Do you want to give me a moment to see if I can unstick this widow?
The eyes have it. [sic]

which window video is the best??? - let me know!
Window1                                   Window2


Sunday, July 1, 2012

Jerks are only human

Jerks Are Only Human

"The trouble ain't that people are ignorant: it's just that they know so much that ain't so." – Josh Billings.

I'm sure that everyone has had an encounter with a jerk. Just to clarify things, a jerk is someone who is dumber than you. If you don't know very many jerks that means that many people consider you to be a jerk. To be a jerk is not necessarily bad, everyone is someone else's jerk. A jerk is neither good nor bad. A jerk just is.
Did you ever take the time to get to know a jerk? I mean, did you realize that they're people too. Dumbness is not necessarily a qualification for one fitting the jerkism category. I have known some very intelligent jerks in my day.
It is common to have, at one time or another, said or thought, "Hey, that persons a jerk!" But have you ever thought about whether or not that person can help it? Maybe he was born that way. No one knows for sure if jerkism is hereditary or not. Is it in their genes? Should a person be ridiculed and condemned for something that they have no control over?
Is it fair? Doesn't anyone care? Do people have to stare? Do they always get into innocent beings hair? Do they really foul the air? Do they come only as a pair? A jerk! – where?
In honor of those afraid to stand up and admit to jerkism I officially declare that for one week a year, from this day forward, all will celebrate a National Jerk Week. Parades and festivities will be forthcoming.

There are many ways to celebrate this grand occasion, and I'm sure that many more will surface once word hits Wall Street and People Magazine.
So take a jerk to dinner without laughing as food drips down his chin. Smile at a jerk (Don't Laugh!) when she does something dumb. When a mechanic works on your car, who you find later to be a jerk because your car runs worse than when you brought it to him, don't say anything about the problems, just pay with a smile. When you listen to a jerk weatherman and have a picnic on a "beautiful day", just keep quiet and eat the soggy, rain soaked, sandwiches. Please remember, at least for this one week, if a jerk smiles – try to refrain from knocking out all his teeth.
If a jerk is crying for no reason – don't give him one.
If a jerk is dying of laughter – don't tell your favorite joke to him, he probably wouldn't understand it anyway.
If you see a jerk pounding on the chest of your mother, who is suffering, not from a heart attack, but from sunburn – calmly point out what he is doing wrong.
If a jerk puts out his cigarette on your waterbed-- don't suffocate him with your pillow.
If a jerk criticizes your writing – don't stab him with your pen.
If a jerk is driving his car in the wrong direction on an exit ramp on interstate 999 – please don't honk at him, it will only add to his problems.
Even though a jerk is calling your mother names as he hangs from a 2,000 foot ledge – help him.
If a jerk is taking you to lunch this week – offer to pay half the bill.

But how does one spot a jerk if he wishes to take one to lunch as part of one’s civic duty?
 You can usually tell that it's a jerk when …
He stops you, just short of electrocuting yourself as you reach for a light switch, because he remembers that he screwed the bulb in backwards.
When he tells you not to worry as you see your car start to roll, because he cut the wheel toward a brick wall so it wouldn't roll out into the street.
When he heaves rocks through your window to see if you are up before he knocks on your door because he doesn't want to make you mad by waking you.
When he won't answer his ringing phone knowing that it doesn't work, because every time he dials his own number it's busy.
He is the biggest fan of a team that is a rival of your favorite team,
When you ask him for the keys to your car and he tells you not to worry because they are locked safely in the car.
When he takes an umbrella into the swimming pool because of the 100% chance of rain today.
When you realize he was going to take you to dinner this week…
How can you tell if you are a jerk – so you can know to skip food shopping this week?
When you are constantly lending your car to jerks.
When people are calling you weeks in advance to reserve a dinner date with you this week.
When you step into the shower before adjusting the temperature.
When you can't tell the time because the little  “ : ”  burned out on your digital watch.
You throw out your pens when the wax runs out.
You can't tell the eminent from the facetious.
You are in charge of blindfolding the condemned man in front of a firing squad, and when the handkerchief rips you curse by saying, "Shoot!"
You find a ten-dollar bill in front of an apartment complex and spend the rest of the day looking at all the mailboxes for the name Hamilton.
You wear a windbreaker because you’re feeling gaseous.
You have a solar lighting system installed inside your house.
You read in the dark because bright lights give you eyestrain.
You want to wear glasses because they make you look intelligent.
You try to fall asleep, but your vivid dreams keep waking you.
You want to wear contacts because you want to change your eye color.
You have at select times proved that it is possible to trip up stairs.
You read articles by people who write about dumb things…

                                                              Leaving you Dumbfounded,
                                                            èim  Uhr

                   P.s.      To all my readers —                 
   Eat a light breakfast all week.