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August 16, 2005

Volume 5, Issue 16

A Cypriot airliner crashed a few days ago, and a Venezuelan airliner crashed this morning.

The theme for today is the word crash.

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Comments

Mean Time to Failure: 6,000,000,000 Years.

It started with little things: tides refusing to come in and out, fires that wouldn't light or wouldn't extinguish. Nothing to panic over, but the world quickly learned that reality was not what it was through to be.

Then Jupiter disappeared for a week, then reappeared, but with two red spots and different moons. Segments of the night sky vanished, replaced with featureless blueness.

The scientists spread the word: the universe is a giant computer simulation. They gave a plaintive instruction: if you are the one given the choice, please, please, please pick 'Retry.'

Posted by: Jeff R. at August 16, 2005 10:44 AM · Permalink

The neighborhood still remembers the unfortunate flight of the Sky Moose. My 11 year-old brother's inelegant aircraft, he built it to escape our abusive stepfather. It was made from a bathtub, some sticks with canvas flung over them, and the wheels off a riding lawnmower.

The day my stepfather locked us in the basement again, my brother decided enough was enough. So he ran out to the hill, jumped in the Sky Moose, and pushed off toward the driveway--where our drunken stepfather had passed out an hour before.

The Sky Moose never technically flew, but it did set us free.

Posted by: Thomas at August 16, 2005 11:35 AM · Permalink

First, he tears at the paper. Gently, and with precision. This is not a time to be rash.

Next, it is time to place the torn end of the colored straw to the tip of his tongue. It tingles. It teases.

He lets the feeling linger until the urge becomes overpowering. At this point, he tilts his head back, and takes it all in. The sweetness makes him dizzy.

Without conscious thought, he rolls through ecstacy. Things feel right, and all traces of anxiety are gone. He stays in this place for a spell.

Then, abruptly, it ends. He crashes.

Posted by: Adam at August 16, 2005 6:44 PM · Permalink

"Haste, Rupert!" Penelope cried. "This ornithopter won't fly itself!"

Indeed. I flipped the red switch. A low electric current thrummed through the base of the enormous metal cage attached to the back of the two-seater bicycle, and the pigeons inside went absolutely bonkers.

"We don't have enough air!" I said, watching the edge of the steep embankment roll closer.

"Puff-and-stuff!" said Penelope. "I am Penelope Coop, the world's first and greatest zoomachine pilot, and I will not crash and die on account of insufficiently terrorized pigeons! Pedal faster, Rupert!"

Oh, gentle reader, it pains me to report that we crashed.

Posted by: G-Do at August 16, 2005 7:50 PM · Permalink