Mark Morrow's You Will Laugh Or Else It's The Goofy Suit

No, the lengthy title does NOT mean a lengthy post. I'm sleepy. It's 10:14 PM EST, and I have to wake up tomorrow at 5:25: AM EST, so I really shouldn't still be awake, but I have to write for my "loyal readers," in the words of my dad.

-Q: What loyal readers?
-A: ABSOLUTELY NONE!

In fact, if I didn't mention a new post to anybody, it would go unregarded, like a very minor rattling to most women. Or like a nova somewhere in the next universe over. (Its name is Boxers, and it is shaped suspiciously like a pair of before-mentioned items. Scientists do not believe, however, that it is filled with anything. Of course, scientists may also have the brains of unintellegent worms. But we don't care. We'll listen to their every word and put as much weight on it as though it were told to us by Heaven itself. Seriously.)
As it is, however, there is nothing to write about. This in itself could potentiolly be a good writing topic, if my brain were running at even just 10%. Right now it's running at something near 0%, and how I'm finding the keys so profoundly easy is far beyond me, because I'm not entirely sure that without mentoring by three adults, I can find my way to the bed, which is about five feet behind me.
Of course, when you don't have anything to write about, you end up writing utter crap. You write something that even people who believe the news will stay away from. You write stuff that people from Mars know to stay away from. You write something like most of my writing. Of course, I do have the small advantage that nobody lives on Mars, so they can't stay away from it. Other than that, nothing's different at all. Literally. And here I go again, writing more and more and more until finally, after hours upon days upon months upon years of labourious reading, you beat yourself to death with your moniter, having finally figured out that you can't actually survive while reading my blog. Studies show that in fact, more fatal injuries have been caused by my blog than, say, all of terrorism combined. Every person who takes one glimpse of my blog begins, slowly, to rot away from pure horrible, humorless text, growing more and more skeleton-like until they become, invariably, my brother, who is not significantly wider than an average #2 pencil. Of course, some people can barely survive, merely hanging on the fact that they have to hold up the pretense they honestly think it's funny. Most of my family goes through this. I'm sure they're thinking something along the lines of: "Boy, when does this part end? This is more boring than reading a fifty-two page report on the qualities of cucumbers. I need to finish this so I can go watch a three-hour, highly informative, video of Blue's Clues. At least it's better than this. Does he ever stop? This is like, the fourtieth sentence he's tried to hard to be Dave Barry. Come on, what's this? This part is horrible! It's worse than the rest! It's so miserably boring that... that... maybe I'll notice I happen to now be reading the chair. Ok, let's look at the blog for the first time... AAAAAAAUUUUGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!" After which the promtly suffer heart attack and die on the spot. Fortunatly for my dog Belle, who's sitting on my bed and being a good girl, she can't read English, because she's about twelve years old, and understanding this could result in fatal bone dissapearance disease. As it is, her fur is scorched simply by looking at it. If you're wondering how I'm surviving it, I'm technically not. My head is on fire. I'll return in a moment once I dunk my head the in the toilet, and then I'l

I currently have Christmas lights in my room. Yes, I do. Don't ask me why; I wanted to. They're strung all over the bookshelf in my room. Yes, I have a bookshelf in my room. Don't ask me why; I wanted to. The Christmas lights actually look pretty, though, and the bookshelf has some books and some crap. They're both quite useful, I think. Unlike my dog, Belle.
Belle is a very, very easily upset old doggy. She's about twelve, and she is a cross between a border collie and a cocker spaniel, making her one of the few purebred spanleys. Yes, we made that up. Don't ask us why; we wanted to. (In case you hadn't figured it out, I'm going to repeat that alot throughout this blog post, and end it with that, because it will be funny. Ohhh... I shouldn't've said that. I should NOT have said that...) She has mental issues, and hates lightening, loud noises, and small girls. Also, she detests high pitched noises, and (Andy says she doesn't, it's just that I'm not nice enough to her) me. She's all black and white. And she's oh so cute. She's a lapdog, but she's getting really old, and it's just about all she can do to jump the four feet or so up to my bed. She does it though, just about every single night, every single time; what a cute puppy!
Well, back on subject, I have Christmas lights in my room. It makes it kind of bright, but I actually like the light; I don't like pitch black yet. Not quite yet. Andy does; yes, he really does. Don't ask him why. He won't tell you. Neither will I, for that matter. Not like I could. I don't know either. In fact, I don't know about a lot of people. I don't know how to write, either.
See, to write a good humorous blog post, you have to have material. It's mostly something you see somewhere; a crane truck stuck in the mud, sledding accidents, your dog falling down the stairs, etc. (No, that didn't actually happen. Yes, I think it would be funny. No, she probably wouldn't.) If you don't have material, you turn out with soem kind of vague slushpile, something nobody actually wants to read, something like this. After all, you don't actually want to read this, do you? It's getting boring, isn't it? Don't worry, I wouldn't dare to even ask you to continue reading as I launch into a dramatic and hilarious part.
If you really thought I was going to, you were wrong. Congratulations. You found out that you're wrong. You were wrong about the Christmas lights staying on the tree. You were wrong about the calendar not ripping on a nail. You were wrong about the car having enough gas. You were wrong about how strong that rocket thrust should have been. You were wrong with how much you were supposed to send the IRS, and now you're wrong about this. Yes, you most certainly are. Don't ask ME why; I wanted to.



Make fun of you.

"Oh cwap! I set my alam fo ten o'clock P.M. instead of A.M. again!"
Those immortal words, spoken by Homestar Runner, entirely explain the meaning of "Decemberween." Or, as the average normal human knows it, Christmas. As for us kids, it's generally known as "The Biggest Event Since the Vietnam War. Or possibly Last Christmas." This is because we generally receive presents. Face it, you all, you know you want to understand the meaning, you really do, but you just plain don't. To us, it means more expensive things for free, supposedly brought by Santa, who is also known as St. Nick, Father Christmas, Davey Jones, etc. What he did to award himself saintdom, nobody will ever, ever, ever know. But he is apparently a saint. (Rumor is he saved the reindeer from a wolf by feeding them magic corn which made them so fast they could escape the other assailent, prehistoric zucchini. They were then exposed to radiation, from which they gained wings, but then they fell off. Of course, the reindeer could still fly. History said so. They thanked Santa profusely, but then, of course, he turned around and put the bit in their mouths.)
Everybody is always wondering how Santa knows if you've been good or bad. The obvious reason is, of course, parents. He has a big secret collaberation with them, and that's how he manages everything. Then his computer prints him up a list, sets everything into his GPS, and then picks some random elf to dress up like Santa while Santa eats Mrs. Nick's cookies. So in reality, Santa is just a figurehead. He doesn't actually do anything, which many people take to be proof he doesn't exist. They're wrong. It's just that Santa got too old to do it anymore about thirty years ago, every since he came down the chimney the wrong way, hurt his head, and lit it on fire, as if to add insult to injury. So he stays at home and the elves do everything. They don't complain; they can't. Santa's big thing is he controls the existence of the elves. If he's not happy, poof, the elf's an iguana. In the words of Hobbes, "One can think of a miriad of uses for a hand-held iguana maker."
Now, think about snow. Everyone under the age of about sixteen (which age limit, in my opinion, has something to do with the ownership of a driver's license) loves snow. It can be shaped into various things, like snowmen, snowballs, and snow forts. If you're an entrepeuner, then you can always try snow art, or assemble an army and take over the neighberhood (or, if you really are desperate, France) with snowballs. Of course, various teams with real weapons will respond ("Put DOWN the snowball and step away from the snowman!"), so I'm suggesting against it. Stick with a snow war.
Presents! Everybody loves presents. If you really want to get a good present, get your kid an elf. If you wait long enough at the chimney, one dressed up as Santa will arrive. Then you jump 'em. If he doesn't show up, well, he must've figured it out somehow. Don't give up; there's always next year. Clothing, when too much is awarded, is not a good present. Only give clothing if it is actually needed; kids would much rather have toys. They will be ripping open their presents, excitement building, the wrapping paper is falling off, the package is kind of soft, it finally comes off and there's a box, so they rip open that, and finally, in an excited rush, discover: A pair of Winnie the Pooh socks. Males will be saying, "Why thank you ever... so much," but they will be thinking, "Jeez, and you got me this instead of a paintball gun?" Girls might like it, but, of course, we all think that they're kind of weird. Don't blame us; it's young male nature. Oh well.
Anything that makes loud noises is good. This is generally the last thing that parents will get, but grandparents (thank you!) will get grandkids all the guns, explosives, knifes, firecrackers, etc. that a parent wouldn't allow them to get. They, of course, never provide batteries for the little toys that have the miniture air horns that work almost exactly like the real thing. Batteries never come with anything.
After Christmas, things wear down. You actually have to go to school again *uhhh* and do all sorts of horrible things, like get off of the sofa. Paper is thrown away, decorations are taken down, and spirits drop like rocks made of pure lead. Children go into school shock, in which almost nothing is accomplished because they got used to accomplishing nothing. It is hard to wear out of; I myself recently recovered from the summer practical hangover. It's hard to go back to school.
*sigh.*

In case you hadn't noticed, some of my previous blogging seems to have centered on attempting to off-handedly imitate Dave Barry. This is, of course, because Dave Barry is the dang greatest guy I know of since perhaps 1 A.D. He is capable of making almost anyone laugh, except moms. What's with that? His humor style. Ahh, his beautiful guy humor style... *tranced*
Anyway, if you havn't read his books, read them now.

Also, this is the first post that has had an even remotely serious topic. I plan to make it my last, as well.

Every morning early, my brother, mother and I go to a short study at our church. While Andy studies, I practice the organ, supervised by Mom. So, at the end, we walk out and Andy walks to the car.
Anyway, this time Andy got out a little early. He walked into the room where the organ was, and we all walked out. At the car, we realized another student didn't have a ride. As she walked in to ask the teachers to stay till her ride, her ride arrived. Andy got out of the car to go inform her. Now, the side of the building we were on had a kitchen door, which stayed locked from the outside, and the main door, which was currently un-locked. Andy ran in the main door, and at the same moment, the other student walked out the kitchen door. Realizing she needed to inform Andy that her ride was there and he didn't need to warn her, she ran into the main door, at the same moment that Andy left. This game of hide-and-go-seek on both sides went on for several minutes before Andy finally stopped and waited. Of course, she didn't come out. So he walked into the main door. She exited once again, but this time Andy was prepared. He jumped back out the main door, and the issue was resolved.
Of course, if you want to replicate this occurance, we support it. Wasting time is both pointless and stupid, which are qualities in actions you should support. If you don't, see a psychiatrist immediatly, who will tell you that we are dead wrong. Don't believe him. He's trying to brain wash you. Don't believe him. He's trying to brain wash you. Don't believe him. He's trying to brain wash you. Don't believe...

You know, by the wisdom of the Founding Fathers, we're allowed to make fun of presidents, and candidates, like Clinton and Gore. I know a person who drew a picture involving Gore, bushes, and gigantic trimmers. I suppose that Gore would be dissapointed; however, apparently the majority of the rest of the USA wasn't. Anyway, I bet less than 1% of Utah was.
Of course, at the same time the Constatution was scripted, they spilled tea on it. The tax was no longer there, so they passed that problem up and just canceled the whole thing. They decided later to try again, but of course this time, the mosquitoes ate them all alive. There were in fact no surivors. Finally, they found new representatives, and got the Constatution online. Many question the possibility of this, as Gore invented the Internet (or so he claims).
Obviously the first amendment was there to allow us to do such things as to bash upon people's heads verbally. Sometimes, our arguments are so fierce that it becomes physical, somehow sending anger waves at the governments face.
Of course, Dave Barry and such severly take the government by the horns and twist those horns so badly that the government cannot see. I wish I had the capability, and am doing so as best I can, barly avoiding being gored by the horns of no humor upon the government bull. I wave my red flag of bad puns and horrible humor at the bloodshot eyes of the pro-democratic journalists and just dare them to send it flying towards me. They often do, and I at least wish I were doing the leap of retort over them, although it doesn't always work, thereby spilling the blood of pride across the dirt of the USA. If Dave Barry knew I were trying to imitate his awesome puns, he would, if he were dead, turn in his grave. The question is, what do they do when they aren't in the grave? Turn in their shoes?
I need some material to make fun of. The other day, my Dad saw a guy in a mobile crane stuck in a mud puddle on the median. I suppose he learned his lesson: Next time when he disobeys traffic laws, it will be in a Volkswagen Beetle. I strongly support his desicion, as most likely it won't be able to power itself out of that pit. It will still get stuck, and Dad might find something new to make fun of. This isn't funny. I suppose I'm really not very funny. Seriously though, I need practice, which is why I'm doing this. As one man said about his podcast, "I suffered for my music, and now it's your turn." In my case, replace "music" with "humor" or "sense of humor" or something like that. If you don't, I guess I'll just go stick my thumbs in my ears. If only they would fit. Aww c'mon, that wasn't even remotly funny. Perhaps I should become depressed. It seems somewhat fasionable, and it wouldn't be that hard to wear black and dark blue and brown and purple and all sorts of things. Or I could go against the flow and wear bright pink and people would make fun of me. Isn't it supposed to be the other way around?

I know, I know, the title is kinda silly, but wait till you hear the stuff. Uhhh... Wait a sec... lemme think it up... heh heh...
Of course, you realize your body needs sleep. You wouldn't exactly think that you could survive it. Doctors actually recommend 9 hours. For those of 9 or above, you generally get 5. Of course, you could also just pretend your an insomniac. Hopefully the word "insomnia" will not escape your lips during your restful sleep from 5 am to 3 pm.
No, seriously, think about it. If you don't get sleep, your eyelids will turn the color of a rubber ball. Slowly, this section of rubberish growth will take over your body, and if you get too close to a fire, you'll inflate until you fly away or explode. The latter is occasionally fatal. Hey, it's called the miracle of American medical science. I hope never to experience it.
Now about the nine hours of sleep. How can anybody fit it in? For small children, there's crying to be done, and possibly some dirtying of diapers. For older children, there's fun to be had. For adults, there are actually valid reasons they can't sleep as long. For example, work. Also their baby, who is currently engaged in a noise contest with your dog, who is clearly not up to the task of combatting your baby's noise. Of course, you, as a mother, would clearly rather push your head between your pillows and ignore the rest of the world. But that would be classified as "child abuse." Clearly, this is ridiculous. I mean, why can't children get in trouble for "parent abuse?" Please institute this after I am twenty.

Rules for Being a Pirate


1. "Yo, ho, a pirate's life for me!" This song is a bit of a give-away, especially when you're pretending to be merchants carrying more than one billion dollars' worth of almost illegal cargo. DON'T sing it during a search on pain of being arrested. And possibly killed.
2. Try NOT to fall off the rigging. It can cause you to either fall upon the deck and lose several major organs or break your skull hitting the water. Both of these are generally fatal.
3. Be careful which flag you fly and know whose flag you're flying. It would not be good to have an Iraqi flag flying next to an American cruiser. Remember this.
4. Watch where you're sailing, as being stranded on an island know as Never Land can generally lose your captain a hand. Of course, if you don't like him, this could be a plus.
5. Careful about your accent and word choice. Saying something like "Don't hit that, you idjit!" can cause searchers to become suspicious that you are a. a pirate or b. Arnold Schwarsneggar. I hope I misspelled that.
6. When boarding, hold your sword POINTY SIDE UP AND SHARP SIDE FORWARD. And be careful not to you the blade. Unless you're a dis-liked captain.
7. During mutiny, don't kill the crew. Use their general stupidity to convince them they're getting something they're not for all of this. If you are the crew, don't hold back. Slaughter the captain. We mean it.

Everyone who can remember anything about their childhood (age about 14 and below) will remember the exitement.

They should also remember wishing it were here while it was still September.

Already, I'm trying to decide what I want for Christmas. Of course there will have to be the usual stocking candy, but then I might want some Hot Wheels, and definitly some Legos, etc. etc. etc.

One Christmas Santa gave us a vacation to Baltimore. It was wonderful. Everything was planned out wonderfully (see my Dad's blog by going back to my main page, and compare this with a road trip...) and we got to do everything.

We went on a Coast Guard craft, with some weapons on it, and we got to go in a submarine. The whole time we were down there, I was looking for the button to make the whole thing dive. Obviously however it had been carefully disabled, or cleverly hidden; I never found it. I think that's why we got home alive.

We also got to see the most AWESOME aquarium EVER. They had huge tanks with sharks and fish and turtles and everything! It was the best trip ever. (again, compare to a road trip.) But the trip home was quite welcome. However, it did not go so well.

The first incedint was a rear-ending. A car, going probably 85 MPH hit us, going about 60, right at the top of a hill. We practically slid down the hill, but the brakes did not stop fast enough; a police officer came right up next to us almost immidiatly. Noting the damage in both of our cars, he asked if it was anything more than a "fender bender." For us, no big deal. The man behind us, however, had MUCH more trouble. When he stopped his engine, we found out later that it took him fifty minutes just to get it going again, and then the radiator was busted, so about ten miles down the road, he totally broke down, with a broken fan belt too.

The next thing that happened was we spent about $60 on gas; we were nearly out and our Suburban takes up about 40 gallons in the tank. It was a severe overprice in my opinion. I've decided that when I grow up I'll make a gas station that sells gas 5 cents per gallon higher than the gallon of fuel cost me. It'll be around $1.50.

We were within twelve miles of home when a bad driver hit us. In a firetruck. This time it was us who was in trouble; plus the firetruck, sirens blaring, just drove right off! We reported to the policeman who arrived about fifteen minutes later, who said that there must have been a "raging fire." We managed to get home, and call a tow truck.

What I summed up from the whole thing is: Road trips work not; but when luck is against you, just don't go ANYWHERE.

It was just a moment ago I was reading some guys blog about himself, and he's really sad because he can't date the girl he likes, and there's a girl he doesn't like, etc. etc. etc. So the point is, sad people are sad because they're sad people are sad because they're sad people...

Their problem is they can't do something they want to, so they are looking for an outlet of feelings, like for example enlisting in the Marines so they can blow up stuff, like terrorists. Or, just buying a lot of firecrackers and throwing them at terrorists. Or, just buying a sniper rifle and shooting terrorists. They are looking for something legal to take out their anger on. What they don't understand is that it's a choice. They can be sad, with everything weighing them down, or they can be happy, blowing something up. It's along the same lines as the outlet for the Noogie Gene*.

For example, an old friend, Tim, when he broke up with his wife, got himself hired at a mining camp as explosives expert. He's cheerful and perky again! Another friend, Robert, lost his mother and father. He bought lots of firecrackers and launched them at the old house. He's as happy as can be!

Explosives are exactly what the world needs to combine letoff of the Noogie Gene and the Sadness Effect. Because people like to blow stuff up.

I have, for example, blown up a beaver's dam with a quarter stick of dynamite, and thrown very explosive firecrackers at trees.

I've been to court two more times.




*See "Dave Barry's Complete Guide to Guys"

Over the 11 years of my life, I've seen problems with smoking.

When you see somebody smoking, you obviously think, "Ewww, that looks disgusting. I'm never gonna be doing that. Hey, he's offering me a cigarette. Ok, Mr., I'll have a smoke with you!" See, once you've started, you can't stop. And it has physical problems, and mental problems, and dating problems.

My old friend Jim's father loved to smoke. He would not stop. But Jim had tales of his father's trouble with dating. Like the time he went upstairs on the balcony, dropped some of that wierd hot stuff from his cigarette, and burned his girlfriend's hair off. And even as the fire went on, he commented, "There ain't nothin like a smoke!"

There have been other problems that put you between a rock and a hard place. For example, in Colorado, I think, there was a ban on smoking in some town. But in that town a play was going on that required smoking. The police would not back down on the ban, and if the players did not smoke, they would be violating the copyright. The police suggested tobacco free cigarettes. It didn't work. It smelled like marijuana. The police almost made a raid because of it.

One neighbor told me the story of his "There ain't nothin like a smoke," story. He sat me down in his house, and began on his tale.

"When I was still dating, my father wanted me to marry some girl named Rebecca. I was actually in love with another girl named Pollyanna. I told Pollyanna I would take care of it on our first date.

"When we sat down to eat, I pulled out my pipe, and my friend Bob behind me pulled out a full-size fan. Rebecca didn't notice. We had a nice dinner, but then I made the sign and Bob turned it on. What happened next was a complete accident.

"The coals missed and lit a man's jacket on fire. He lept up, dropping some of the flame onto the table. It began to burn, and lit the carpet. Rebecca was devistated by the end of it; her best dress had been half burned off her body. Me and Bob somehow got off of accusations of arson. However, just the other day, I was smokin' my pipe, and I saw Rebecca and a friend walkin' past me on the street, so I commented loudly to my friend, "There ain't nothin like a smoke!" Boy, you shoulda heard here runnin down the street and screamin' here lungs out, "Arson! Aauuggh! It's the Arson Man!" It was the second time I escaped a jail setence."

Well, I've seen something like that. In fact, I had a little joke I managed on someone, it must have been Rebecca.

An old lady walked past, and I noticed she appeared the same as a picture I saw marked Rebecca. I shouted, "There ain't nothin like a smoke!"

I've been to court now.