If I wrote a history book

Hey team so it was August in the year 1978. It was in this month, on the 26th, Pope John Paul I (not his real name) became the 263th Pope of the United States of America; this occurred a mere 20 days after the death of his predecessor and inspirational friend Pope King Henry V. This was a revolutionary accomplishment since he was the first female African-American grassroots reformist oppositional newlywed gay bald and overweight Pope in history.

This was a major event for civil rights in America since this was the first major civil rights achievement since the great doctor Martin Luther King Solomon the Wise was assassinated in 1968. The fact that it took 10 more years to make any more progress towards civil rights came as no surprise to the entire country, who, to the best of my knowledge, hadn't been sober since the Kennedy administration (1956-1993).

However as things continued to turn worse for the Cold War and difficult relations between the western world which supported capitalism and exploitation of workers and the eastern world which supported communism and the exploitation of workers. The fact that this revolutionary new Pope had been elected by a slim margin meant that he would have to make an even greater statement in his actions in order to convince the world that we should all just get along and exploit our workers while we eat caviar and Kobe beef.

So the good man decided that, in order to draw the world's attention away from real issues, he should die in his bed and start up lots of conspiracy theories about the church, the establishment he had sworn his life to in 1923. He was only 33 days old.

When it's sunny I feel like I have to go outside otherwise I'm lazy

Hey team you know what really drives me up a wall? The weather. I know, I know, everyone needs something they can make small talk with every other person on Earth with but I want to have a serious conversation about the weather with you. I know I am not the only person who has these meticulous, bizarre, and almost neurotic complaints about the weather.

I really really can't stand storms. Storms are great and all, but they just don't do it for me. After seeing what can be made in Hollywood these days I just have to look up at the humongous bolts of horrifying and mystically powerful electricity flashing through the sky and shake my head because, come on nature, that is pretty lame. Mother nature really has to start hiring some better special effects people to make storms a little more than a pain in my ass.

What we really need is technicolor explosive lightning. Yes, I know some things explode when lighting strikes them but lightning seriously needs to blow up the cloud it was born from. I'm not even sure why it doesn't, and according to my cousin who is an expert scientist not even Science knows how clouds survive being struck by lighting but once again nature I have to say that is pretty lame that you can't even kill a white fluffy marshmallow in the sky. Oh right the technicolor is also important; if you can't put on a light show at least as impressive as your average Pink Floyd concert you don't deserve to be putting on a light show at all.

Then we really have to do something about hurricanes. Right now they pose a threat to about 2% of the entire world. That is right 2% according to my friend which means that if the world has 7 billion people only 140 million are threatened by hurricanes. Come on! That's chump change! That's like if I said I was a natural disaster by stepping on an anthill and now terrified meteorologist ants are pointing wildly at green screens showing predicted levels of foot carnage in the next few days right after adjusting their cute ant toupee.

What we need to do to make hurricanes really threatening is to equip them with the latest catastrophe-causing technology. That's right, we're going to give growth hormones and genetic therapy to hurricanes in order to make them grow into the most powerful overlords of all time. If all goes as planned as we isolate the killer horrible gene on hurricanes and we allow it to mate with all of the horrible pestilences of the world we will finally be able to grow hurricanes. The hurricane industry will then be rapidly monopolized by Chinese hurricane farmers who will blend it with their cultural heritage, sweet and sour sauce, pork imitation substance, and MSG.

Finally, once hurricanes are being produced more rapidly than sandpaper and bred to have more ferocity and aggression than my dryer (it has taken the washer hostage in my laundry room, I believe the standoff is on Channel 3 right about now) they will come and unleash their unholy fury.

Instead of rain the most horrible things imaginable will fall from the sky; teeth, barbed wire, sharks, rusty nails, candlelight dinners, sports cars, delightful water lilies, the pleasant aroma of your plump and cheerful aunt baking a cake, the cutest puppies imaginable, that toy you really really wanted for Christmas but your parents were too cheap to buy, sunshine, and concentrated happiness. Then hurricanes will be truly terrifying because you know they are going to hold this over your head and when you try to misbehave they will say "well what about when we gave you that adorable puppy huh?" and then you will feel bad and do as they say.

Mother nature I am calling you out. You really need to shape up and start giving us storms that really challenge the existence of human life. If you don't read this and start making some of these changes in the next few years I will have no choice but to throw a coup, and boy oh boy won't you be sorry you don't have homing tornadoes that are on fire and shoot more tornadoes.

Isn't it amazing how patient I am

Hey team so today was just an average day for me. I was walking down the street asking the homeless for change and seeing how many people I could creep out by pretending I was a pigeon. As I was flying along and looking for good targets to poop on I ran into someone else who was also flying along and pretending to be a pigeon. "What a coincidence," I said to him as we landed precariously on the edge of some historic landmark covered in bird shit, "I very rarely see anyone else playing floor is lava out here."

He was young-looking, with a light green short sleeved tunic that really seemed a bit short for someone who was flying around constantly, if you get my drift. He nodded nonchalantly, acknowledging my comment but not replying in any significant way. Since I wanted to make sure that he was also playing floor is lava, I very suavely and subtly added "you know I really like floor is lava but most people think it is a game for young people and that they are too mature to play it you're not an old crotchety person are you?"

"I will never grow up!" He yelled and then flew in a somersault, landing gracefully and beaming widely at me. It suddenly dawned on me what was going on here. "Holy shit," I said, "you're Robin Hood aren't you?"

He nodded again, with another sly smile that let me know that he had clearly very recently stolen from King Georgeshire the Lionhearted the Third and was looking for probably the lowest 10% of the general earning bracket so he could practice his socialist outlaw tendencies by performing a simple and straightforward reevaluation and forceful redistribution of wealth in a society dominated by capitalists who abuse the blue collar workers in order to gain a substantial wealth. I can get a lot out of body language.

He then asked me if I was poor. I replied simply by saying "well gosh I don't know I mean I assume we have massively different definitions of poor for example I live in a modern society that uses a complicated asset evaluation system and so while I may not have a lot of spending money I do have a few somewhat valuable assets at my disposal as well as a flourishing stock portfolio but I also only have $34.45 in my checking account and a toothpick, a crayon, and a carton of milk in my wallet and in your case you died like hundreds of years ago"

So he did what any self-respecting outlaw would do and he took a few hours with me to go over my stock portfolio as well as my pension funds and helped me balance my checkbook before coming to the conclusion that yes, I was poor. So he slipped me a bag full of shiny gold coins with pictures of the great King Charlemagne pressed into them. I told him he really needed to check this story for historical accuracy but I was appreciative nonetheless.

So I walked to the nearby bank to see how much money I could get for authentic gold coins from Charlemagne's era but also apparently Robin Hood's man shit that would be worth such a fortune I thought. So I make my way into the bank and the teller is a nice looking young lady in her early twenties and I hand her the bag and ask how much I could get for it. She looks at the coins inside and says "ummmmmmmmmmmm"

And stares off into space. And by stare, I mean actually stare - she didn't blink, or move her eyes, or apparently even breathe for several minutes. Becoming concerned, I tried to say something, but she cut me off with a more emphatic "uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh"

So I patiently waited for her to finish thinking, or whatever she was doing. She hadn't made a single noise in a little over an hour now and I was seriously afraid that she was dead. However, a simple check could be made; every time that I tried to say something she would declare that she was thinking at a much higher volume, either with "ummmmmmmmmm" or "uhhhhhhhhhhhhh". So at least she was still alive. I slumped down in one of the uncomfortable chairs and tried to catch the eyes of the other tellers, who didn't really seem to think that anything was wrong.

When I woke up, it was dark out and the security guard was shaking me awake. "Excuse me sir, we have to close the bank now. You're going to have to leave" so I left that poor teller just standing there until the next morning. I returned the next day, and the next, and the next day just waiting for a response from the nearly catatonic teller. For 8 long, grueling years I went back and waited for her to come up with something. Nobody else in the bank would even acknowledge me; I was already being helped.

Finally, late one Christmas eve, she finally started writing something. I peered over the counter at what she was doing. She had a one dollar bill on the table and was meticulously copying the picture of King Charlemagne over good old Geord Washington. Then, when she finished with that, she carefully transcribed "480,273,372,172 dollars" over where it said "one dollar" and stuffed it into her register. She then gave me a my deposit slip which showed that my account now contained $480,273,372,206.45 and said "Thank you, have a nice day!"

I lost it all playing slots. But it was the most fun 2 hours of my life.