How many haiku can I write in seven minutes?
face punching badass
I am not so much, but then,
really, few men are
I'm sorry I'm fat
it's just kind of my hobby
Twinkies are tasty
I just read a book
About Abraham Lincoln
I am such a nerd
In college, I lacked
direction and good purpose
Really, I still do
Seven minutes speeds
quickly by on the timer
I could be working...
Baseball on TV
reminds me to do laundry
both take a long time
One more short minute
and my haiku writing
will gladly be done.
Well, that was great.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Seven Minute Blog: Cheerios
4PM2U7UNNQSS
I am painfully aware of how much the world has changed since my childhood every time I go grocery shopping and see that there are 10 different styles of Cheerios as opposed to just one.
I want to believe this is progress, but deep down inside, it just makes me more prone to believe I'll end up soothing my once glimmering, freedom-loving soul with bromides from Ann Coulter and Glenn Beck tricking me into believing that My Country was once a more wholesome and righteous land, but has been utterly corrupted by the French and liberals and youth, miserably drinking myself to death with expensive bourbons and whiskies, sitting in a leather chair in a darkened parlor beneath a gun rack and a Don't Tread on Me flag.
But I'll be old and near death, and it'll be OK that my ideals and love for John Stewart and cultural acceptance have been long-since abandoned. And Cheerios will no longer cause me existential crises.
I am painfully aware of how much the world has changed since my childhood every time I go grocery shopping and see that there are 10 different styles of Cheerios as opposed to just one.
I want to believe this is progress, but deep down inside, it just makes me more prone to believe I'll end up soothing my once glimmering, freedom-loving soul with bromides from Ann Coulter and Glenn Beck tricking me into believing that My Country was once a more wholesome and righteous land, but has been utterly corrupted by the French and liberals and youth, miserably drinking myself to death with expensive bourbons and whiskies, sitting in a leather chair in a darkened parlor beneath a gun rack and a Don't Tread on Me flag.
But I'll be old and near death, and it'll be OK that my ideals and love for John Stewart and cultural acceptance have been long-since abandoned. And Cheerios will no longer cause me existential crises.
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