New Rules

Hello, Suessir here. I currently have your beloved "THS" in a secure location, and he won't be escaping naytime soon. I'd just like to say I have a few new rules as long as I'm in charge here.

Rule 1: There will be no comparisons between myself and THS.
Rule 2: Everyone likes what I write. End of story.
Rule 3: I am cool. No disputing the fact.

Now that that's out of the way I'll tell you young whippersnappers a story, about when I was a boy, way back in '44...

Posty

Well, it's time for a post, on this fine Sunday evening.
11:15PM, April the 26th, in the year of our Lord 2009:
Things are quite nice in the Highlands. The weather is a bit lacking in the niceness department, but it's not quite summer yet. I see in a cage at about 4:30 a fat red furry creature. To get technical it's a cavy, but I don't like to get technical. I have a bad aftertaste in my mouth from jelly beans I had about twenty minutes ago. It tastes bad. Oh Wait, I've already said that. (SMASH!) Oi! Who are you?!

I'm Suessir, don't you remember?

Oh yeah, I do remember. What's with the large blunt object?

I'm taking over this blog.

What? Hey you can't do that!

You find I can. (WUMP!)(BANG!)(SCUFFLE)(SCUFFLE)(SMACK!)(SCUFFLE)(THUD)
MUAHAHAHAHA!!!

-To Be Continued.

Poeticism

Why is it that I only feel poetic when I'm in a very melancholy mood? It's very strange, I can rarely write good poetry when I'm in a good mood. I have tried, but it just doesn't work. I dunno. Quite strange, yes. Of course, all of my limericks have been written when I was in a good mood. I wonder if there's something about the blues that makes me more poignant. That could be the case. Or it might be that I rarely actually sit down to write thoughts in verse when I'm not swept up in a tide of confusion, sadness and anxiety. Actually, thinking on it, I have written a couple good poems when I was in a good mood. They were all just insanely weird. As opposed to my other poetry, which is more intense and haunting. Ah well, I think that's about all I have time for right now. Thank you, and goodnight.

Tiredness

I am very tired at the moment. Not that I've had particularly long day or anything. I think it must be my new bed. It's too soft and I sleep too long on it and end up tired. Not that I'm at my own house. Funny how often some people find themselves away from home so often. Of course, home is where the heart is. And you're lucky if you can find someone to give your heart to. Of course a heart is always lonely until it's given away, but that is a hard thing to do indeed. Not as much continuity there as I'd have liked. Ah well. I ought to get to bed. Remember:

Life is good, even when it's not(as long as you've got God!)

Guy In Blue Van Merging Without Blinker

So, today I was driving and a guy in a blue van merged on the freeway without a blinker. It was annoying. As he did I said: "Whoah, guy in blue van merging without blinker." It was funny at the time, but not so funny in retrospect. I need to go to bed. It's far too late. And we all know what happens to me when it's late. I can't stop it it's here

STOP! DO NOT KEEP READING IF YOU VALUE YOUR TIME!

I mean, eggplant cheese balls and a totally righteous cow. Then I was like dude check the pressure on your whipped cream. Of course then I went and shot a thingymahoosit over the wall of the palace, and those guards that supposedly never move came after me, and I was all like...

End Transmission

The Usual Pattern

Well, I haven't posted in a while, which is a sad thing. But I'm back now, and hope to be so for a while. I'm only on the third sentence of my new post, and I find I'm in the usual pattern. I haven't got anything to say. I had a great, witty idea earlier, but now I can't for the life of me remember what it was. So I'm stuck here having to improvise something. I shall write a little story for your enjoyment(if you don't enjoy that sort of thing just skip down to the bottom for my closing remarks.):

Once upon a time there was a man named Sven. He lived a happy life, save for the fact that for some reason, everyone thought he was Norwegian, when in fact he was actually a native of Madagascar. He often wondered why in the world his parents had named him Sven, but they were dead, so he couldn't ask him. Then one day someone once again asked him if he was from Norway. It set him over the edge. He donned a suit of chain mail, took up a round shield and an axe, and took the bus downtown to plunder something. He saw a promising knick-knack shop across the street, and starting walking toward it. It was at that moment that he was struck by a gold 1998 Chevy Cavalier moving at 31 MPH. Do to the laws of Physics (sum of forces= Mass x acceleration) he was thrown to the street where he bumped his head. He came around in about five minutes, thinking that he was a harpsichord player named George Grickman who lived on a farm in Kokomo, Indiana. This, of course, solved his name problems. Of course he was shortly arrested for carrying a lethal weapon in public, and was eventually put in the Psyche Ward of a teaching hospital in Omaha. But no one ever thought he was Norwegian ever again. The End.

Well, that went downhill. But what can I say, it's my first day back. I'll see you all next time right here. Actually I'll just write to you and imagine you sitting in front of your computers and reading this. That's all.