Noah’s Car Ferry
Anyone had a car problem recently? What was wrong? Maybe a dead battery? A bad transmission? Worn or flat tires?
Well, did you know that cars can get stomach aches? Me neither. But the other day my three-and-a-half year-old granddaughter Natalie came to our house and told me things about automobiles that I never dreamed were possible. And it's a good bet that these things were never anticipated by Benz, Ford, Chrysler, Tesla, whoever.
After her mother dropped her off, Natalie and I went downstairs to play with toy Matchbox cars. This is when she explained that a red race car had a "stomach ache." She named the patient "Lightning McQueen," because it resembled the cartoon star of "Cars," her favorite movie.
So Lightning McQueen was rushed to the doctor's office in the bowels of Noah's ark. This gets complicated. When we play at my house, Natalie insists on multi-tasking: getting out a wooden toy Noah's Ark in addition to the Matchbox cars.
Look, I WAS TRYING ... REALLY, I WAS ... trying to engross myself in child's play, but my mind was flooded with serious questions. And concerns. Did Lightning McQueen have health insurance? Or did he need flood insurance? And how did he get a stomach ache? Drinking diesel instead of regular unleaded? Twenty weight oil instead of 30 weight? And how do I explain all this to a three-year-old?
Or was Natalie creating a post-apocalyptic world in which automobiles replaced humans? Y'know, this might have movie potential. And you know Hollywood likes the Noah story. Like when Charlton Heston parted the Red Sea and ... no, no, wrong story... No, we should ask whether Natalie was going for the Russell Crowe version of Noah, or the Steve Carell version. But still... how would the cars get fuel if a Great Flood covered the Earth and all the gas pumps in Thunder Hollow? But I stifled all my questions, and just went along because my granddaughter was busy playing and she seemed contented. So who was I to rock the ark?
But back to the patient. While Lightning McQueen was being tended by another car (Doc Hudson was his name, according to Natalie) ... by the way, I'm going to assume that "Doc" was short for doctor. But was this ark doctor an M.D. or veterinarian? Or a garage mechanic? Somehow, other cars found out that Lightning McQueen had been taken ill, and they decided to visit! But how do I explain visiting hours?
And a lot of cars ... let's see, Natalie called them Cruz, Jackson Storm, Mater, Mister Scurley ... and a lot of other vehicles just rolled into the bottom hold of the ark. And, Natalie flew some cars in! But c'mon, cars flying? And landing on the ark? Which I felt was dangerous because Noah's Ark was not an aircraft carrier, and it had no helipad or runways. But I said nothing, because there was a bigger problem on board.
In minutes there were so many autos in the galley and top deck that Noah's ark could have been mistaken for the Ludington Car Ferry. It looked like it was getting ready to cross Lake Michigan to Manitowac, Wisconsin. Wasn't there a load limit on this thing? And you can't dodge this question: If God instructed Noah to allow only two of each animal species aboard, why were 20 or more cars parked on our ark? Or do the Ford Bronco, VW Beetle, Chevy Impala, and Dodge Ram count as species?
At least the wooden animals were not booted off the ark. They remained in the top level of the carved wooden vessel. But they were packed into a little enclosed space. One on top of the other. Probably breathing in exhaust fumes. Does PETA know about this? Or what if Sarah McLachlan found out? You know, she's the one who narrates those TV ads against cruelty to animals. I envision a closeup of these wooden animals while Sarah sings "In the Arms of An Angel" with phone number superimposed.
Oh, do you know who else was in the same cramped space with all the animals — a wooden Noah and his wife! By the way, the biblical account in Genesis does not give the name of Noah's wife, but Natalie assured me her name is "Ava." Must be so, because the three-year-old said it with such confidence. You know, I would find out later that Natalie has a preschool friend in her neighborhood named Noah. Who has a sister named Ava. What a coincidence!
We continued to play Matchbox cars/Noah's Ark until Natalie's mother came back. Mom called for Natalie, and the little girl reluctantly set down a car and headed for the stairs. And here I was, left to contend with Lightning McQueen's stomach ache and where he would go for post-Ark treatment.
I yelled "goodbye" to Natalie, and managed to spit out one question: "How did the cars fly?"
The little girl stopped on the steps, turned around, and lowered her eyebrows at me in disgust. And she said, "Grandpa, pretend."
Oh.
The Pencil
“Hey, can I borrow a pencil?”
I’m sitting in my 10th-grade Chemistry class when I speak those fated words. We’re about to take a test, one of those scantron things that have to be filled out in No. 2 pencil only, and I can’t find my pencil anywhere. I lean over to the kid sitting next to me. Tom Peli-something. He’s a bit weird, and I’ve never really spoken to him much before, but I’m desperate, and this kid’s always prepared.
“Sure.” Tom pulls another pencil out of his backpack. Before he hands it to me, he holds it up between us. “Just so you know, it’s haunted.”
“What?” Did I just hear what I think I heard? I knew the kid was weird, but what the hell?
Mrs. Conway’s sharp voice pulls me out of my thoughts. “Put everything away except for your pencils and erasers. I will not pass out the test until everything is away and the room is quiet. And you will need the entire class period for this test.”
After a few more whispers and shuffles of books and other materials, the class grows quiet. Tom is still holding the pencil between us.
“Whatever, I’ll take it,” I say, grabbing the pencil out of his hand.
Tom just shrugs. “Okay. I warned you.”
Mrs. Conway hands out the test, and I get to work filling in the little bubbles for what I hope are the right answers.
C. Hydrochloric Acid
A. Carbon Dioxide
B. 18 Electrons
C. Hydro—
“Of all the things you could do with a pencil, and you’re just filling in those little bubbles?”
I look up at the sound of the small voice. It sounds like the speaker is right in front of me, but there’s no one there. I look around, but no one else seems to have heard the voice. Confused, I return to reading the next question.
If a sample of matter is uniform throughout and cannot be separated into other substances by physical means—
“I’m not complaining, really. It’s just that there are so many other things you could use me for.”
Again, I look up, but there’s no one there. I glance over at Tom, but he is focusing on his test. I scan the room, looking for any sign that someone else heard the voice, but all of my classmates have their eyes on their test.
“Do you need something, Mr. Speero?” Mrs. Conway is at her desk, glaring a warning at me over her glasses.
“No, Mrs. Conway,” I answer quickly and try to get back to my test.
But when I pick up my pencil to fill in the next bubble, I notice something on the eraser. Something sitting on the eraser.
“I mean, you could doodle, or even sketch a masterpiece!” the thing says. “You could write a story or a letter. Even an essay would be better than this!”
I gasp and drop the pencil on my desk, drawing the attention of several of my classmates and my teacher.
“Mr. Speero! Is there a problem?”
“Um, can I go to the bathroom?”
Mrs. Conway looks at me sternly and then rolls her eyes. “Fine. But don’t dawdle, or I might suspect you are up to something.”
I just nod at her, stealthily grab the pencil, stuff it in my pocket, and walk out of the room. Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see Tom smirking at me as I leave.
When I make it to the bathroom, I pull the pencil out of my pocket and stare at it. It looks like an ordinary pencil – yellow except for the black lettering spelling out the brand name and a number 2, with a dull, lead point on one end and a pink eraser held in place by its metal holder.
Suddenly, the eraser begins to morph. Two little arms stick out and grab the edge of the eraser, and soon a head appears. The little thing pulls itself all the way out as if he were pulling himself out of a hole. When his entire body emerges, he sits down on the edge of the eraser and looks at me thoughtfully.
I stare back at him in fascination. He looks like a fully grown man, but he can’t be more than half an inch tall, and he’s entirely white, though slightly transparent. He’s wearing an equally white, equally transparent outfit consisting of khakis, a collared shirt, and a sweater vest, and on his nose sits a pair of wire-framed glasses.
“What are you?”
The little man shrugged. “Ghost, ghoul, poltergeist. Call me whatever you like; I’m not picky.”
“Tom was telling the truth?”
“He usually does. One of the reasons most people think he’s kind of weird.”
“So, do you, like, belong to him?”
The ghost looks indignant. “I don’t belong to anyone! Tom just happens to be the current keeper of the pencil that I haunt. Or, at least he was. Now, that honor has been passed to you!”
“What? Because I borrowed the pencil?”
“Yes!” the little ghost says excitedly. “And now you get the benefit of my great wisdom!”
“Look, I just needed a pencil to take this stupid Chem test.” Then an idea hit me. “Wait, the benefit of your wisdom? Does that mean you can help me on my test?”
He sighs. “I suppose I can. But I wouldn’t be much help. The sciences are all well and good, but they don’t hold the pure passion and depth of literature or art. If you really want to put me to work, set me loose on an analysis of Shakespeare or a short story about the futile pursuit of love. I was a writer, painter, and professor of art and literature in a past life, you see.”
“Of course you were,” I mutter. “Look, I gotta get back to finish the test or Mrs. Conway will fail me for suspected cheating. Sorry, but I don’t have any use for a haunted pencil. Tom can have you back.”
“Wait!” the little man shouts at me as I exit the bathroom. “I can make myself useful! I can! I’m intelligent and ambitious. Together, we can really go places!”
“Not interested.”
“Please, don’t give me back to that idiotic boy!” the ghost begs. “I cannot stand that imbecile!”
Getting tired of the little ghost’s whining, I shove the pencil into the pocket of my jeans, but that doesn’t shut him up. His muffled voice stays with me all the way down the hall from the bathroom to my chemistry class.
“You don’t know what it’s like! He’s had my pencil for four years, and I don’t think I can take it a day longer. Please! Don’t give it back to him!”
His pleas are starting to wear on me, and I consider giving in and just keeping the pencil for the sake of the little whiny ghost professor, but when I enter my classroom, I come face to face with Mrs. Conway.
“Are you ready to take your test now, Mr. Speero?”
“Um, actually, I need a pencil.” Her raised eyebrow tells me that she doesn’t quite believe me, but she still leads me to her desk, pulls a sharpened pencil from her drawer, and hands it to me.
“Anything else?”
“No, Mrs. Conway. Thank you.”
I walk silently to my desk as Mrs. Conway sits down at hers. The little professor is still yammering away in my pocket, making my next decision easier. I pull the haunted pencil from my pocket and hold it out to Tom.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I whisper.
Tom looks up from his desk and glances at me and then the pencil. The little professor is now on his knees on top of the eraser, his hands clasped as he pleads with me. “Don’t do it! I’m begging you! I’ll do anything! I’ll—”
Tom shrugs and reaches for the pencil. The instant Tom takes the pencil from my hand, the ghost disappears, and I can no longer hear him.
Tom smiles down at the pencil. “Hello again,” he whispers to it before sliding it back into his backpack. Then, he goes back to his test without another word.
Trying to shake the memory of the tiny ghost from my mind, I do the same.
Which element below has the highest electronegativity?
Apache OpenOffice post - videlicet converting ascii format back to ODT.
I (Matthew Harris) scrolled thru a small number of threads applicable to issue iterated in Subject box, but yours truly (me - a spry boyish looking married sexagenarian - Doctor Demento humanitarian wannabe) does NOT consider himself technically savvy with computers (NOR anything electrical), hence a panic stricken state prevailed regarding .doc written and saved poetic material somehow getting converted into orthodox ASCII irretrievably lost. After doing a Google search I came (upon the midnight clear) witnessing your forum emblazoned across the sky. After reading similar laments courtesy countless unknown persons, who experienced a similar quandary (most posted some years ago) methought there must exist a verbal incantation that can be uttered to reverse the unwanted ask key transmutation nearly rendering hours of blood, sweat, and tears on a three dog night all for naught.
After familiarizing myself with creating a username and password at the following link (User community support forum for Apache OpenOffice, LibreOffice and all the OpenOffice.org derivatives), a hare brained idea awoke to communicate far and wide across the webbed wide world namely elaborating to elucidate (peppered with light humor), and enlighten anonymous browser (reader) aside from being gifted as a storied poet or poetess in particular or writer in general to help distressed dude, perhaps (ideally) courtesy a former damsel in distress.
If nothing else this beatle browed, doobie brother, foo fighting half noiser maker jumping jack flash blinding as a luminaire nonchalant poetaster reaches toward virtual wizardry gave thee dear reader a chuckle.
Please do NOT reply with message encrypted as text clipping with bangles, NOR goo goo dolls serving red hot chili peppers. A private joke only known to myself.
The Car
As I went to get in my Black 2020 Nissan Rogue, it turned on
I didn't even get inside it yet. it moved towards me
I backed up of course I wasn't planning on getting ran over today.
it eventually turned off and I climbed inside, it was like normal inside the car no one else in it. only me, then it started again. oh no. not again. the seat belt wrapped itself around me as the radio turned on, all I could hear from the radio were ghostly laughs, groans and screams. that's when I knew that my car was haunted. it was scary but I couldn't move I was too scared to do anything. The car started to back up out of the drive way by itself, I wasn't able to do anything as I was frozen with fear. I thought to myself "where is it taking me?" but I knew it wasn't going to be somewhere I recognized that was for sure. we were now on the road the car still fully in control of the situation taking me God knows where.. we finally arrive at our destination, of course a grave yard. where there are a bunch of undead folks and ghosts everywhere.. the car said "welcome to the family" then drove itself into a whole rolled down the windows and opened the sunroof then the next thing I knew I was buried alive in my own car.
Totally Real Reviews Of My Last Book
I would like to assure you that all of these are TOTALLY 100% real reviews of my new book, “I HATE Your Prophecy“.
I mean…as you should know by now…
…a Dark Lord wouldn’t LIE, right?
“I thought a satirical apocalyptic Dark Lord novel would make me want to drink. Unfortunately, I accidentally knocked over the bottle of whiskey onto the tome. Undaunted, I drank the book. It had a honey sweetness going down, and then a kick like a giant mutant mule with a bad temper and very, very heavy metal shoes. Seven stars out of five; would drink again.”
-Charles Dickens
“I was somewhat worried, having read the author’s books and found them to be made entirely out of tricksy stuff, namely, words. I thought he might have repented and be seeking redemption, but what’s that I see in this book? That’s right…more words. the author is clearly beyond hope. I put the damn thing down and went to go watch more videos about people yelling at each other.”
–Jean-Paul Sartre, famed comedian
“Sir, you shall be hearing from the Elvish Court shortly.”
~Gimli, Elf King
“Do not attempt to place this object on your head and use it as a Sorting Hat. I found out the hard way. Please don’t ask what the hard way was. I’m giving this book five stars, on the condition that the author takes it away and never lets it near me again.”
–Catherine the Great, pop star
“I literally could not put this book down because I temporarily forgot how hands work, and also, I’m a giant lobster and don’t have hands.”
–Arya Stark, motivational speaker
"It's more fun than a barrel full of monkeys. Although it turns out that filling barrels with monkeys is actually a violation of a number of animal rights laws, even if the monkeys themselves very much enjoy it."
~The Man With The Yellow Hat
“This is definitely one of the two best novels I have ever published.”
–Jeff Mach, professional burrito
“On the one hand, nobody would want to read this weirdo’s idea of a fantasy universe. On the other hand, I’m from the future, and I can assure you that George R. R. Martin’s “Ice and Fire” thing was never finished, so you might as well blow your cash on this.”
-J.R.R. Tolkien, Elder God
Celestial Queue
Thank you for your faith. Your prayers are very important to us. Prayers will be answered in the order in which they were prayed.
Due to heavier than usual supplicant volume, you may experience longer wait times. Please enjoy this celestial choir while you wait.
Thank you for your patience. Listen carefully to our menu, as the options have changed:
Press 1 if you are ill.
If you cannot wait, please call 9-1-1.
Press 2 if you have fallen into financial hardship.
If you cannot wait, you can temporarily suspend your usual tithes while you finish the application for the new credit card for which you have been pre-approved. Remember, certain restrictions apply.
Press 3 if you need to be hired for a certain employment position that will certainly change your life.
If you cannot wait, please contact your state's unemployment office for community college opportunities in other professions. And you can temporarily suspend your usual tithes.
Press 4 if you're experiencing a crisis of faith.
If you cannot wait until I can re-proselytize you, please review the Christopher Hitchens videos on YouTube or, alternatively, consider Islam, Judaism, or any other religion, except for Scientology. (Don't get me started!)
Press 5 if you are consumed by a breeder reactor of unpayable student debt due to incessantly accruing interest.
If you cannot wait, please transfer your debt service to the new card for which you have been pre-approved. Remember the promotional interest rate is temporary.
Press 6 if you are depressed.
If you cannot wait, please consume your larger-than-usual daily requirement of chocolate and ask your doctor if SSRIs are right for you.
Press 7 if you are in pain.
Remember that higher numbers on the analog pain scale receive priority.
Press 8 if you just want to talk.
If you cannot wait, please call back. I'm kind of busy.
Press 9 if you just can't catch a break and enjoy our celestial choir.
PLEASE BE ADVISED that due to
--current conflicts,
--natural disasters,
--epidemics,
--famines, and
--genocides,
...we are experiencing longer than usual wait times. For your particular stupid, clueless concern, consider just dealing with it and call another time. Thank you for your faith.
[CLICK!]
She’s All That
"I'm supposed to be the man," the narrow minded thought can't help but emerge. I mean - I did say that, once or twice? As a joke. Regardless, the thought persists. The smile on my face grows. It's so funny.
I snap my sports bra to remind myself it's there and real. So, how did I fail?
Outdone?
Outdone?
OUTDONE?
OUTDONE WITH NO QUESTION!?
Oh, how refreshing. The reality settling in tethers me to reality, as a gentle warm breeze says hi to my face. I smile hi right back at it, begrudgingly. Hours. Days. Weeks. Months. Just on the resume, man.
All to be outdone. Flawless social skills, pleasantries, perfect resume appearance, outdone for a less qualified, 'better team fit'.
The humor in the fact I over-qualified myself for 'entry-level' but 'under-qualified' without 'entry-level', supposedly...? Appears to me as plainly as the stench of the mass amount of rotting apples around me hits my nostrils. Yup. I always forget how the trees grossly overproduce, the excess fruits dying off en masse, those highest apples spoiled, naturally, as a part of their individual life cycle. The proof is in the proverbial pudding, as well as the sad attempt my feet have of avoiding street-style applesauce.
"Maybe life is more like a cartoon,"
If I'm ugly or something... I guess, would someone tell me?
"Would I be an ugly cartoon? Oh, some sort of offensive caricature, of sorts?"
As I near the end of the mystical, mythical orchard, I see the white and blue top of the bus stop sign in the distance.
"And this morning, in the mirror, I saw an offensive stereotypical caricature staring back at me," Oh, what an insidious mind, inside what is apparently sometimes a lady killer body. As I stroll past the equally rotting field, placed perfectly along a growing zone and city limit, isn't that an offensive stereotypical caricature? The forgotten corn field parallels an equally forgotten soybean field.
"All that food, gone to waste - I would've eaten it if I had known I was allowed to," The sweet release of an innocent thought reminds me to again, ground myself in my own reality.
Ahh... unemployment. More like, "Isn't this supposed to be funemployment, amirite, ladies!?"
I force my hands into my pockets to feel my empty wallet. Oops. That is not fun or funny.
...But really, to some, it is. As the blue and white top transforms to a full sign, and joins the grey steel pole to the ground, I see him. Oh, joyous day!
It's the homeless man who calls himself God but is the nicest sweetest guy ever - like to the point you kinda... he... excuse me, He. Let's all respect my view of God in this poetic... probably... I mean. If God says He takes many forms - anyways, how lovely the sight of H-him is!
Looking at the flaking, cracking leaves of the decaying yet standing stalks, the deep yellow ochre shades, the black mold shades, the baby yellow hues, the big orange patches scattered throughout... how grounding and mentally stimulating.
"Hey, God!" I call out to Him. [Thou shalt bear no false idols, in sincerity.]
"Ah, my Child!" He calls right back as He rears up from what I had assumed a sitting position, reaching his natural seven foot tall height.
"God, your Earth is surely, naturally, Created - Glorious and beautiful!" I need a really good windup for this one.
"Child of Mine, you are Blessed with the Gift of Plain Sight," Throwing His arms out to welcome me into the final stretches of reaching the city limits bus stop, He booms His support of me.
"Yes; But Father, mine cup runneth dry."
"Surely - You Jest, Child!"
"Father, I solemnly swear this is no jest - I was out-butched in a job interview. I don't even know if you know what that is? But you call me She, I assume you can see how that may not be the easiest thing in a man's world."
"...Surely. You Jest, Child."
"Father, I really need the regular ribbing right now, no jest, I am still unemployed."
"Child."
"Yes, Father?"
"Surely, I Solemnly Swear, Ye Was Out-Butched Two Times Today - In Quick Succession, As Well. Your Father is Your Mother."
The Haunted... What?!
"Somethin' the matter?" wriggled Carlyle, scootching closer to the stranger, along the bus booth bench, a slight drizzle catching the polycarbonate wall siding, separating bodies from the elements, while admitting a hazy view of the city dimming.
"What?!" said the old dog, his whiskers so profuse the chap couldn't tell if he'd been spoken to, at all. He certainly didn't feel sure, not with that big word ones use when they're disappointed already, asking if you "understand," or if you've, "understood."
He could picture ole Mrs. Tibby, with her massive arms crossed over chest and belly, looking down, frowning, with a treat in her other hand. But he weren't mad much.
"What's the matter?" he tried again with genuine small pup sincerity, twisting his head to mirror the lean of the fellow next to him. Surely, he was looking right at him now. Must have seen his mouth moving up and down, and figured he'd been talking to 'em all along, side by side.
The old timer's eyes gave a little glimmer of seeing, and he once again stuck his nubbly claw in his ear and gave a firm wiggle.
His jaw dropped.
"'What?' my ear--- It's haunted!"
05.02.204
The Haunted... What? challenge @AJAY9979
A Philosophical Sentence
I was a mere undergrad when I entered the philosophy department library, deep in thought, certain of my existence, interrupting the philosophy professors' meeting, not having been aware of the philosophy department meeting sign outside the door because it was pushed aside, finding myself well inside, intent on returning René Descartes's Meditations On First Philosophy to its perfect slot, when I looked up, horrified, but I didn't show it, not even when the department head, who was speaking, stopped, and with the other philosophy professors, some standing, some sitting, watched my slow motion show, without words for the first time in his most distinguished career, until rebuking me with a distinct
AH-AHEM!
as I, having replaced the Meditations, now more certain of my existence than even René, retraced my steps and exited the library,
AH-AHEM!
exploding in my skull, mortified as though I'd broken in on an orgy of geniuses, but, still, I did not show it, I did not, for I was a student of philosophy, and equanimity was my ideal, and all these years later, I know that I failed this test, because, though I did not show it, I was filled with anguish, and I chastised myself for my behavior for a long, long time afterward, and I know now that I should have shown it, perhaps with a quick smile, apology, and exit, as soon as I realized the context, but I also wonder why the orgy leader, in all his wisdom and grandeur, didn't just say to me,
Laddie, unless you want to drop your pants and bend over, I suggest you drop that little book in the box outside, and have a good rest of your day.
Writer’s Block For Lovecraftian Cultists
Dear Initiate,
Congratulations upon making it to, and possibly surviving, the Third Level Initiation!
We realize that after the many dreadful oaths; the threats of fates so far worse than death that human languages, in self-defense, have never found words to describe; the utter secrecy; the repeated recitation that permitting a single Mere Human know a single one of our Sacred Actions which would make the average Borgia say, “Hey, now, that’s a bit much, don’t you think?”—that in light of all that stuff, it’s odd that you’re now getting your instructions from public posts on the Internet.
The fact is, the early stages of your Cthulhu Culthood are tests of sincerity, of ability to keep a secret, of not being some sort of meddling do-gooder, and also, of whether or not, if we really need someone to jump on the sacrificial altar, you’ll do your part and push someone else onto the damn thing.
But the truth is, all of the Order’s more important secrets are freely available on the Internet. We simply call them ‘fiction’. You’ve seen this before; people think that the writer is simply playing out the tired trope of pretending that their fiction is reality pretending to be fiction, but in fact, it is the lively and dynamic trope of pretending that one’s reality is fiction pretending to be reality pretending to be fiction pretending to be reality.
Got it? Great.
Now, as usual, we’ll explain the esoteric meaning of yet another seemingly-harmless not-for-the-public piece of knowledge which has now penetrated mainstream culture. As usual, they believe there are Secret Monsters everywhere; as usual, they are right; and as usual, they are terrible at detecting the actual monsters. But it keeps them too busy to find us, and they seem to enjoy it, so, hey, more power to them, eh?
While this one goes out to the writers, it’s become so prevalent (good on us!) that even most readers are aware of it: “If you’ve got writer’s block, then one cure is to sit down for 15 minutes a day, every day, and write down 15 minutes of whatever comes into your head. Even if it’s silly, even if it’s nonsense. You’ll break through the writer’s block, and start writing freely again!”
Now, those of you of the Fifth Level or higher are already chuckling, of course. Like every joke, it’s not as funny if you explain it, but we feel like you deserve to know:
All humans, as you’re aware, are capable of performing magic. It is the Psychic Censor, the part of our consciousness which isn’t mapped in our brains, but hangs out near our astral centers of projection, which saves us from ourselves. It’s why you can say “DAMN YOU!” without immediately opening up a rift between here and Hell and sucking your enemy straight down to the 9th Level and automatically enslaving you to Something unspeakable an appropriate tax. It’s why we don’t all win the lottery, thus bankrupting whatever state might have provided the lottery ticket. It’s why most attempts to wield The Force end up as nothing more than foolish wand-waving.
Now we, ourselves, aren’t exactly interested in Magic in general, except (as with everything else in this world) as a means to an end. Obviously, we want to use sorcery to bring about the thing we’ve wanted for millennia: an opening of the gates between Here and There, which will bring our Eldritch Masters through the Purple Spiral and into this world.
But we just can’t find the right combination of words to do it.
Every time we try, we go mad.
People keep talking about the brilliant Abdul Alhazred, and, of course, we all revere him, so much as we revere any members of the puny race whose only purpose is to be extinguished that we may feed the hunger of the Great Old Ones. But, like most people who managed to disable his Psychic Censor sufficient to intentionally write something monstrous, he went mad and was, as we all know, shredded by invisible demons in broad daylight.
Don’t worry. It won’t happen to you. You’ll be different.
But in the meantime, the best thing for us would be for some human who is ignorant of That Which Lurks Beyond to do the summoning for us.
And many have come close. Many writers, doing this exercise day after day for a few weeks, begin feeling peculiar emotions and hearing strange sounds; most of all, cats and dogs and other household pets (unless they’re snakes, obviously) begin to act very alarmed during the writing process.
So far, none have quite succeeded. Either they’ve broken the writer’s block just before opening the gate, or they’ve opened it only long enough for the writers, themselves, to be sucked through—and then it shuts again. This scarcely ever happens, and when it does, we try to provide homunculi as substitutes. (Sorry about Mr. Martin; we were looking forward to reading the end of that series as much as you were.)
But if you keep encouraging people to just relax, sit down, and write or type, and let whatever’s within come out…
…as you know, that’s one invitation magic can never resist. So far, it’s mostly just made the world a lot more surreal, but that’s okay. We’ve waited for millennia.
We can wait a little longer.
In conclusion, if you ever have writer’s block, it’s definitely your mind torturing you with a lack of words because it’s mean, and certainly not your mind trying to save you from yourself. So break through the…barrier. That way you can do lots and lots of writing. You can write ’til the end of the world, if you want.
That’s just an expression, of course.