Spanish Inquisition

Like most people who grew up on an unhealthy dose of science fiction growing up I am secretly convinced that I have telekinesis. Powers like this generally manifest themselves during menstruation in the showers after gym class but alas I am a late bloomer and my psychic abilities still remain dormant, no matter how often I menstruate. And yet, to this day I believe. I know that all I have to do is concentrate hard enough on an object and one day I will make it levitate. And when I do events will spiral way out of control and end in a night of being drenched in pig's blood and a prom school massacre.

The first step though, is to levitate small things. A pencil, flames on a candle, changing traffic lights from red to green- something of that nature. I look for an object nearby and spot a salt shaker. OK salt shaker...let's tango. I narrow my eyes and feel my mental tentacles wrap around the object. Now....must....move....salt shaker....
One minute.....
two minutes....
A bead of sweat appears on my brow.
I can....I can feel it....almost.......

' What are you doing?'

Kitie? When did she enter the room? Damn. Must...not...let her...distract me. I'm so close to....

'Are you trying to lift objects with your mind again?'

Aaaak. She's breaking my concentration! My mental tentacles are retracting...going back into my head...

'How old are you? Can't you get some other hobbies? Normal hobbies like everyone else?'
'What would you know about my hobbies?' I snap, frustrated at my lack of success.
'You collect comics, criticise films you've never even seen, spend hours looking for new Chuck Norris facts on the Internet and masturbate to pictures of female inmates.' she replies without hesitation. Her eyes then lock on to mine, homing missiles that have found their target. 'What are my hobbies?'

Um....er....

'W...w..well,' I stammer,'..the...the thing about that is....'
'Name one. That's all I ask.'

Think think think think think think think think.

'OK then. If you can't tell me a single hobby that I have how about you tell me what my favourite colour is.'
'All of them?' I reply weakly.
She rolls her eyes. 'In all the time that we were dating how come you never pay attention to a single thing that I do? I'll bet you don't even know what my favourite TV show is.'
'That's a bet I wouldn't want to take.'
'What's my favourite food?'

A grey slab of nothing.

'Carrot cake?'
'How is it that Jesse has been going out with me for a few weeks and he knows all these things about me and you don't know squat? He's already booked a dinner reservation where they serve my favourite dish and you...you....' fury prevents her from finishing the sentence.

She turns her head from me slowly and says the chilling words that every man dreads to hear. 'What colour are my eyes?'

Oh.

My.

Gawd.

When you get asked the "eye question" and can not reply within the allotted time (about 4 seconds), your chances of leaving the room with your spleen intact is very, very minimal. It is on par with forgetting the name of your own wife at parties. This is the crucial juncture where the person asking the question will discover that every time you said you think they have beautiful eyes that you were in fact staring at their breasts instead.

Luckily for me Kittie was distracted by the salt shaker which hovered across the room.

Life Lessons

Though I can usually rely on my friend Griff to send me emails of the finest quality: jokes involving retarded people, jpegs of two co-eds pleasuring a black guy, the transcript of a court case where a man admits to having sexual relationships with hamsters (funny, funny stuff. Especially when the mother starts wailing and has to be escorted out of the room and has to be force-fed sedatives)
he will sometimes send me these sweet and fluffy little messages that make you want to retch because of how sweet it is. A fine example being this one, about putting things in perspective;


"When 24 hours in a day are not enough; remember
THE MAYONNAISE JAR AND 2 GLASSES OF WINE:

A professor stood before his philosophy class and had some items in
front of him. When the class began, wordlessly, he picked up a very
large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf
balls.
He then asked the students if the jar was full.
They agreed that it was.

The professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the
jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas
between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was
full.
They agreed it was.

The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar.
Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if
the
jar was full.
The students responded with a unanimous "yes."

The professor then produced two glasses of wine from under the table
and
poured the entire contents into the jar, effectively filling the empty
space between the sand. The students laughed.

"Now," said the professor, as the laughter subsided, "I want you to
recognise that this jar represents your life.

The golf balls are the important things - faith, family, children,
health, friends, and favourite passions -- things that if everything
else
was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full.

The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, house, and
car.

The sand is everything else -- the small stuff.

"If you put the sand into the jar first," he continued, "there is no
room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life. If you
spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have
room for the things that are important to you.

So.........Pay attention to the things that are critical to your
happiness.

Play with your children. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your
partner out to dinner. Play another 18. There will always be time to
clean the house and fix the disposal. "Take care of the golf balls
first -- the things that really matter. Set your priorities.
The rest is just sand."

One of the students raised her hand and enquired what the wine
represented. The professor smiled. "I'm glad you asked. It just goes to
show you that no matter how full your life may seem, there's always
room
for a couple of glasses of wine with a friend."

OK. All well and good. But I think I'd have ended the story with the professor pouring more things into the
mayonnaise jar. Like this...

"The professor then pulled out his hip flask full of gin and started poring the contents into the jar. The students began looking at each other with slight concern. "See, and you can have some gin in there as well. Because everyone likes a bit of gin don't they? And..and...and sometimes wine just isn't enough." As the bell rang the students got up to leave, convinced that the lesson was over. But the professor was determined to try to place more things into the jar, he was suddenly gripped by a ferocity. He was on a mission. He was a zealot, a madman.
As the professor brought out some beers from behind the lectern and started dousing the jar, obviously over-filled, with more and more alcohol. It was then that some students, those closest to him, could see how red his face was, how bulging his eyes. "And it can't stop. Not there. NOT EVER. Because it NEVER STOPS!"-he was yelling now, oblivious to the fear that seemed to be filling the room like a low rumble, the beginnings of a storm. "It NEVER STOPS!"
"Professor maybe you should-"
"I should WHAT motherfucker?" he roared. "What the fuck would you FREAKS know? HUH? WHAT? What would you fuckers know about anything!?!"
Several of the more burly students, linebackers for the Varsity team, slowly inched towards the professor to calm him down. But there was no calming to be done. He pulled out a handgun and shot into the ceiling as if it was the most casual thing in the world. Like it was swatting a fly or parting his hair. The professor then screamed obscenities as he tried to pour more and more things into the jar. Rum, brandy, Jagermeister, heroin. The jar eventually toppled over the table, scattering its contents-golf balls, pebbles, sand and alcohol-all over the floor. Several of the students started crying, confused and hurt at the rage of their teacher, their mentor. The professor then lay on the ground in foetal position mumbling "It's over. It's all over. It's over." as if his chanting alone would keep his darkness at bay."