This is a Chart

CHART
chart

This is a chart. It is only a chart. This has been a chart
of the Emergency Broadchart System. In the event that this
had been an actual chart you would have been informed of where
to look in your area for the corresponding chart.
My chart goes out to you.
Never look a chart in the eyes.
I left my chart in San Francisco.
The most wonderful thing about charts is that charts are
wonderful things. Their tops are made out of drafting
tables. Their bottoms are made out of slings.

That's enough! There will be no more charts for you
tonight! You've messed up your last chart

This is a chart

Gangs OR Us - Robert Walker - Gang identification expert

Testing the "Blog this" feature on my new Firefox Google toolbar. OMG that was the Pedigree commercial with the David Duchovny voiceover. I thought it was Rob Morrow the first time I heard it.

Gangs OR Us - Robert Walker - Gang identification expert

This Lap is all Wrong

How am I supposed to spread out comfortably on this lap when the torso attached to this lap is scrunched over that wierd glowing thing all the time? And why are those fingers that are supposed to be petting me petting that clicky thing all the time? Fine, I will just find the piece of furniture with the largest pile of stuff on it and I will writhe on it until most of the lumpy things fall off, but first ;lfdjklmxkjof ctrl alt del ctrl alt

Courtesy of Brenda

Brenda liked the poem that was my first post and asked me to find and post some more. I generally hate them but Brenda likes them so here goes.

You are not here
You are not here
The thing in my head that looks like you
And would talk like you if it could talk
Is not you
You are not here
The thing in my head does not know you
I think I know you but I only really know
The thing in my head
Which is actually me
But I don't know me
I only know the thing in my head
Which is not you
On Friday I looked into it's eyes
I thought it was you but it wasn't
It was terrifying anyway
Even though it wasn't you
It only looked like you
And it smiled like you do sometimes
And it said "Stop looking at me"
Like you would
If you were here
Only you're not here
And I don't know what you would really do
Since you're not really here
I had to swallow and breath
Cause it scared me
Even though it wasn't you

This Couch

This couch does not belong in this house.
This couch belongs under a passed out party guest.
It longs for a coating of cigarette smoke.
A spash of bong water.
A slight odor of vomit - beer and Nacho Cheese Doritos.
It sags, lumpy, the stained cushions sliding off.
The passed out party guest turns his face away from the light.