TH13: More Opening Lines, Gabba Gabba Hey
Thursday, Sept. 14, 2006 at 9:36 a.m.
When he bent down to pick up the semi-automatic pistol left lying on the pavement, no one was more surprised than Joseph when an arrow was suddenly shot into his left buttock.
Joseph was dreaming, dreaming of beautiful women with magnificently cantilevered bosoms and flowing hair, each carrying trays full of pickled herring and beer, his favorite New Year�s Eve treat, and every beautiful buxom woman was singing melodic harmonies of old Van Halen songs, and Joseph felt he could dream this lovely dream forever, if it weren�t for some shrew screaming in his ear to wake up.
Joseph was sweating profusely as he practiced his katas, each exercise getting more and more strenuous as he tried to rebuild his strength; yet he still could not complete a turning kick without losing his balance and falling on his left buttock, still healing from the arrow wound caused several weeks before.
The little dog continued to wander through the countryside, hungry and hurting, realizing that even though he would probably be subjected to further testing if captured by humans, he only knew how to fulfill his basic needs by association with those same humans.
She was wearing red, a gown as scarlet as the sins that Joseph never had the nerve to commit.
Rose practically floated onto the dance floor on Joseph�s arm, yet she still had to tell him where to place his hands, for his dance training was woefully limited.
He was pressing her against the wall with the full length of his body, and she could feel his hardness against her thigh through the thinness of the fabric of her skirt as she breathed in his fragrance, a miasma of the food and drink from the evening, of cigar smoke, of his hair lotion, and she thought, I think I�m going to die.
Once again, the budding hopeful authoress got a little hot and bothered by the words she was relentlessly pounding out on her keyboard, and she had to fan her face with the closest available sheet of paper.
Jane attempted to practice her breathing exercise as she once more had to endure her officious co-worker, Alice, drone on and on about minutiae of office procedure that was only important to Alice.
Alice was once again talking endlessly to the trainee, who had arrived a week ago to answer phone calls but had yet to touch a phone, and Alice had reached the point in her dissertation regarding former employees who had left the company over five years ago, when Jane lost her patience and smacked Alice upside the head with an outdated three-ring binder containing the technical information for a product they no longer supported.
�Son, your mother told me to go to hell on many occasions, but let me tell you something; I�ve been to hell, and hell is one big kitchen, and I had to eat your mother�s cooking while I was there.�
Joseph deserved the whippings he got from his parents as a boy, probably none so much as the time he couldn�t stop laughing when his mother called him a son-of-a-bitch.
The little dog had been bred in a laboratory and had spent his entire life in cages and on tile floors, and now that he was outside for the first time, the ground was so alien under his paws.
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On this day in 1956, Surgeons Walter Freeman and Egas Moniz perform America's first prefrontal lobotomy on a depressed, 63-year-old Kansas woman in Washington, D.C. They successfully create a lethargic dullard, and the duo hails the result for years to come as a medical triumph, despite the fact that two of their next twenty lobotomy subjects end as fatalities.
Lobotomies, kids! Gabba Gabba Hey!
Ah, the good old days, when lobotomies were the prescribed cure for excessive masturbation, anti-social behavior, and generally being uncontrollable by parents who weren�t exactly on top of the whole parenting game to being with.
Today�s lobotomies are called Ritalin.
The ancient art of trepanation, which is the act of drilling a hole in your skull to let the demons out give the demons some air so they can talk to you better relieve cranial pressure, is still a viable option:
Just visit the website of the International Trepanation Advocacy Group, and Peter Halvorson, the guru of said group, will tell you that after trepanation, "you look at problems as a source of entertainment."
One can indeed imagine that many of life's problems would seem relatively unimportant compared to having a hole drilled in one's head.
Me? I�m gonna stick to drinking, rock and roll, and sex. And the Prozac.
Thank you very much.