Mouth 0. Sheriff 1.

My nails. They are little buggers that won't stop growing. They've got wicked sick powers that make them grow like beanstalks. Little clear beanstalks that don't need magic beans to get going. Life's pretty good for them, except there's this outlaw that comes into town and starts pushing everybody around. His name is “The Mouth.” He's downright nasty and has no manners. He barges into town demanding everything and taking what he wants. The nails are no match against this villain. He plunders daily and leaves nothing but ruins. The nails hate the mouth. I hate the mouth.

Whenever any small town is threatened by a group of mangy rustlers, there is one man who can take them on. He's the sheriff and let me tell you, he is one badass cowboy. He's got accuracy up the wazoo and the reflexes of a lion. In my case, this would be my mind. The sheriff rides into town and notices that Beanstalk Town is messed up. He sees one of the little beanstalks all cut up. Sheriff gives little beanstalk some water from his canteen. Sadly little beanstalk's heart stops. He will grow no more, but right before his last breath he tells the Sheriff all about The Mouth. Enraged the Sheriff shouts for The Mouth at the top of his lungs.

The Mouth has just finished shooting everyone in the saloon. He hears the sheriff and guzzles down a glass of whiskey before making his way to the dusty main street.

The Mouth. The Sheriff. No one else. It's quiet and both men squint through the sunlight at each other. The Mouth starts to talk, but it's too late the Sheriff has shot him dead. This isn't fairytale land, this is real life. This is Beanstalk Town and this is their story. Deal with it.

Q.C.

"That's strange, I've never been able to taste pumpkin spice before."
-Quentin Comdel

He was born in Russia during the great escapade of King Toutille. Upon his birth his parents were placed into instant conflict. Their newborn had a disorder. Doctors of the time were baffled because they had never seen anything quite like it. Modern day doctors have since named it the "Little Shakey Dance" disorder. This abnormality would cause the baby boy to shake, shake his booty. He was a dancing baby. The second a beat entered through his little ears he'd be grooving and moving to the beat. This struck horror into the hearts of his parents because during this age dancing was completely forbidden. King Toutille had signed a decree stating that all dancing Russians were to be put to death. His reasoning was that the power of dance was too great, if it was harnessed and placed into the wrong hands it could have devastating effects.

Long story short, Quentin grew up in the underground of Russia. He learned to harness the power of dance at the age of eight. He spent the next 5 years of his life learning all manners of dance and inventing some moves of his own. At the age of 13 he waltzed into Moscow to the beat of "PapayaPapaya." Officials tried to arrest him but were unable. King Toutille declared war against Quentin and sent everything he had at the boy. Quentin shimmied into a contagious disco fever sending the whole Russian army into a great dance. The King contracted the fever but his heart was made of pure evil, so he died. Quentin Comdel took over the kingship and danced the rest of his life away. He even danced on the moon one time.

-The End

Plants, Sun, and Gardening Gloves.

This is my last week as a paid handyman. I spent the last six months tending the property of the historic Rosecroft Estate. As this final stretch has begun, I find it ironic how I can tell that I'm going to miss the place. It was definitely a job that grew on me. I remember the first time I drove up to start work. I was greeted with a firm handshake from a quick talking American man. That handshake initiated the hundreds of hours that I would spend pruning, grooming and cleaning.

It was this job that taught me to innovate, engineer or just plain jimmyrig your way through problems. I became a wizard of power tools, the master of the broom and a brush artist. My hands learned how to work the soil in ways that would put Gaara to shame.

Reminiscing will occur about this job, but for now there will only be smiling. The feeling of having just left a job is so great that I'll be wearing a grin for the next few weeks. Farewell Rosecroft!

Comedian Louis CK.

If you haven't seen this floating around the internet yet, you will see it now.

Paste Creatures

Everybody has rituals, except for me. That's false, completely false. I'm riddled with rituals. Like Clint Eastwood has his gruffy voice so do I have my rituals.

Before I plunge my body into the ocean to partake in it's stoke I stand on the sand and deliver a prayer to God. It is my routine, I never miss it, nor do I prethink about it. It just comes to me when it's time. I picked up this ritual through a friend. It was something he always did before he surfed and it was something that I grabbed ahold of.

As a kid my dad made deviled eggs sandwiches every sunday morning. To this day I don't understand why he did it, especially since that after a few years of it my brothers and I refused to eat them. He ate frosted flakes on the weekdays before heading off to work, so the only reason I can find for the egg sandwiches is that he had more time on Sunday before church and he liked them better than pancakes. Whatever the case, that was one of his rituals.

Than there was the other day when I was preparing my toothbrush with toothpaste. Before I put it in my mouth I turned the faucet on and wet the paste. Why do I wet the paste? It's something that I've done for the past twentytwo years and haven't ever thought about until this point. As everyone has heard we, humans, are creatures of habit. We have rituals, routines, ways of life that we act through day in and day out. It's important for us to take a look at them and question them. I'm not saying it's time for us to stop making our deviled eggs sandwiches, but maybe it's time for us to change the way we brush our teeth.

President Pretend Day

Once a year we have one day that is set aside for remembrance and honor of the Presidents of the United States. Thinking back I have never sat down on a President's Day to remember the present and past Presidents. It seems to me that the majority of Americans, including myself, just enjoy the day for it's addition to our weekend. I don't think anything is wrong with that but I believe there is a solution that will fix this broken holiday.

I'd like to propose that instead of making this a day in which we think about our presidents, we make it a day in which we all pretend that we are the President! It would be awesome. Dressing up is optional, but ditching out on administrative duties isn't. Everyone would wake up and have a meeting in which they'd have to make really tough decisions that would alter the lives of people you've never met. Around lunch time you could imagine yourself spilling some coca-cola on the desk in your very own white house. In the evening, you'd watch some television and than go to a fundraiser dinner.

During my President pretend day I'd give people handshakes and always have a smile at the ready. I'd go hang out by the pool at Camp David and than jog around town with a group of secret agents always at the ready. Shouting out that I am the President would be necessary every now and than just so others knew that I was the President and not them. Oh, and if I had to pretend to be one certain President. I would pick Abraham Lincoln, except that I would pretend that I dodged the assassination bullet and went on to become one of the greatest President this country has known.

One last thing...does anyone else think that it's funny that we have a mountain with the faces of Presidents carved into it?

We cut the legs off our pants.

The past month has been much more musical than normal. I set up a piano keyboard next to my computer and ever since music has been abudant. I rediscovered Basshunter and all of his swedish techno beats. It's funny how a song can have such a powerful effect on a person and his/her emotions.
All it takes is fifteen seconds with the thumping beats and my mindship takes sail across the great sea of imagination. Last time I finished a full Basshunter song I was convinced that I was going to commandeer the Star of India and set out into the great blue.

Also on my music playlist is the always smiling Matt and Kim. Matt and Kim are so happy that it makes me smile. I hope they make you smile too. My goal for the next week is to learn this song on the piano and than find a drummer girl.

Listen to music, it's got powers.

ink pen.

I received the gift of a Precise V5 Rolling Ball pen constructed by Pilot over the summer. It's smooth flow of ink and fine tip made it the ultimate writing utensil. I used it for the better half of a year. It's magical ink produced drawings, writings and signatures. It followed me through life. It saw me through the paperwork of jobs, tax returns and random doodlings. Without it I would have survived, I would have been able to live life but the joy of the pressing it's buttery tip against paper is a joy that I would have never known.

Goodbye Pen, you were good to me.