And now, for your eyes only, porn from the Clouds That Look Like Things thread on the TCAS website. If you spooge or get wet or your nipples harden or your ears twitch or whatever being turned on does to the physical you, I understand. Don’t feel bad about your desire. Shame is for losers and Mindflowers readers have won seven of the last eight Triple Crowns (Note: Many Mindflowers readers are, in fact, horses).

[Apologies for the abundance of numbers and measurements in this posting; I spent today writing grants and Foundations adore quantifiable data. I am stuck in that mode].

On Saturday a flash mob left Ballard’s Bergen Place covered with feathers after a pillow fight and on Sunday night vandals scrawled graffiti across several structures in Discovery Park. These two weekend incidents took 10 hours of staff time to clean up.

On Saturday afternoon, about 50 people converged on downtown Ballard’s Bergen Place for a spirited pillow fight. After about five minutes, feathers covered the entire park. Participants left soon after that without picking up after themselves. Parks maintenance crews spent six hours cleaning up the mess and a Parks security officer is trying to track down the organizer and other participants.

Mindflowers proposes that, if caught, the evil pillow fight perpetrators be immediately shipped to Guantanamo Bay to be sexually molested and detained for the rest of their sorry, pitiful lives without being charged. And their friends and family members should all be given water-boarding torture to find out what they know (hopefully something about the meaning of life). And, to avoid future 9/11′s, pillows SHOULD NOT be allowed on airplanes.

In conclusion, be conscientious about your pillow fighting. Unless you prefer hell to heaven. I know I do.

On Saturday March 22nd 2008, there will be massive pillow fights in cities around the world! Use this site to locate the nearest one. If you would like to learn how to organize a pillow fight, read the howto guide. Please note that some cities will not be participating on March 22nd, either due to traditions (such as San Francisco) or cold weather conditions, like most of Canada. Otherwise, see you at the pillow fight!

14th Sept, 2005

Bilo,

I was very upset that you falsified my move. Playing chess by mail is a game that requires honor – I know you cheated, and I will be insulted if you try to dispute this, because you know I am smarter than any moron who wouldn’t notice that shit! Yeah I’m angry! BECAUSE: instead of actually giving you my next move, I have to write to chastise you for your tricks; instead of having a good week, and looking forward to relaxing with this game, I was fired and I have been cheated by my opponent; instead of bridging the East-West/U.S.A. divide, you are widening it! I am seriously considering reporting this to the CBMF for assessment. I don’t want to, but what choice do you leave me?!!…

Well, I left that hours ago, and now I’ve returned. Here’s my best offer, or I WILL report you to the chess federation: you will replace my bishop to F9, you will make your moved with an accurate board setup, and you will removed one of your pawns.

This, and only this will continue our game and the friendship it has begun. The choice if yours.

-Karl

I ain’t no hero. Never claimed to be. Shucks, anything Ol’ Man Eggars told you about the shootout at the mine probably’s only a nickel’s worth of truth. Sure, I put some men down in my day, but I ain’t proud of it. Only thing those ol’ Peace Makers ever got me was nightmares to be chased away with the whiskey.

But, let’s just suppose that you are in a tight spot. Maybe some big city slicker is looking to buy up your farm, or some half wit got fresh with your sister down by the mill. Well, that there’s shooting time and you’d better be ready for it, because luck don’t favor the foolish.

Here’s the first thing you’ll have to do: grow out a moustache. Nice and long. Get it all walrus like and coat it in pitch and molasses.

Next, start telling people that you ain’t got no name. If they ask you who you is, just look ‘em square in the eye and tell ‘em: “Listen to the wind in a graveyard at midnight. That’ll tell you my name.”

Its important to be ready to die. I suggest a good last will and testament and End Of Life instructions for your family and health care providers.

Now to the shootin’: I’ll be honest to you. Ain’t no amount of practice ever gonna get you to be able to hit nuthin’. With all your nerves going, and your big ol’ moustache flappin’ in the breeze, you’ll be lucky if you just a’ keep from dropping road apples in your pantaloons. The important thing is to just look like you know what yer doin’. Its like middle management. All you need to know is some PowerPoint, Office Xcel, and Outlook and the rest is all in attitude.

In movies they’ll usually show fellas stand in the street and wait for the other fella to move. Why wait? Time is money! And don’t stare anybody in the eyes! You’ll recognize your shared humanity with ‘em and then you’ve had it!

Rules Of Gunfighting Duels:

1. First person dead loses.
2. Second person dead also loses but more tragically.
3. Any surviving participant will either be viewed as a murderer, lucky bastard who’s got it coming, or unholy archetype of merciless justice.
4. Shooting from the hip is encouraged, but not necessary.
5. If both participants discharge all the available ammunition in town without successfully killing the other, the local sheriff should ride into the next town to buy some more.

Good luck, have fun, and may Satan welcome you kindly.

Ryan McGivern
www.myspace.com/mckibbon

Some of the events included will be:
The Great American Cook-Off
Michael Vick’s “Mad Max” Dog Sledding Marathon
A Chimpanzee Round Pound
Bear-ly Legal Photo Shoot
George “The Animal” Steele vs. a knife wielding kangaroo
Giraffe Burning (a Salvador Dali retrospective)

Of course, with every wonderful event of world unity, there will be detractors.

There have already been a number of protesters who have called for a halting of
Animal Olympics because they feel it is too soon after the Munich Animal Olympics.

Last year, four iguanas were killed when extremist sloths raided the Reptile Hut.

“We need to make sure security improvements have been made. It is simply a matter
of good sense.” Said a squid who is protesting the Winter Games in Sweden this year.
The squid had been slated to fight a submarine in a battle to the death, “but with the horrors of Munich hanging over our heads, I feel my participation would not be in good taste.”

Organizers are answering the criticisms with confidence.
“We’re ready this year. Security measures have been made.” Said Bubbu, a Jack Russell Terrier in charge of bomb sniffing. “Believe me when I tell you that the only killing we’ll see this year in Sweden, is the money made at the beer garden.”

Ryan McGivern

I am a trucker and I live a useful life. I bring materialism to your community, from the tainted California vegetables you gleefully consume under pretenses of being “healthy” to the Chinese lead toy your child just licked into her bloodstream that will linger permanently like a stalker, waiting, watching, eventually causing mutated offspring with a third hand growing from her forehead. And this hand will give you, the grandparent, a ‘shocker‘.

My life’s work consists of driving and popping pills to keep driving. I have seven children and a wife at home, but my work is truly what is important to me, so I see the fam about three days a month. They annoy me to heck and back with their, “daddy, I love you so much, did you bring me any of that delish California spinach like you did last time?” and from my wife, “I’m so hot for you; I want you inside me now!” All so needy.

I think it’s destiny to meet you here at this sketchy bar on the far-side of the Sidewinder Motel. You sipping that PBR while I stare at your poignant tube-topped tits through the corner of my eye reminds me of the time I watched a cow drinking from the Yakima River. Moo moo, baby.

Let me tell you Sexy Lady, being a trucker means two things: I’m horny as hell and I have erectile dysfunction. But lest you think that I only like you for your 8 inch butt cleavage and your third trimester ‘lady lump’, I’ve got to tell you that you mean so much more.

You look like the kind of woman who’d buy me a drink after a long day’s drive. I drink Red Stripe and I drink it warm. Tell Mr. Barman to microwave my brew for two minutes, and better drop an olive in there or no tip.

Four hundred miles ago, I was passing through Topeka and my 18 wheeler hit an eldery man who was in the 9/11 Remembrance Parade. By the looks of the uniform that I later pulled out from my engine block he was a WWII veteran. May he rest in peace. Would you like to see his medal of honor? It is hanging you know where.

I can tell by the way that your water is breaking that you too remember 9/11. Yes, it is still upsetting. I remember where I was on 9/11. I was hopped up on meth and cranking out a 15,000 mile job hauling a trailer of Spam. Me and the loner hitchhiker that I later ended up disposing of in a ditch first heard the news on Fox Radio. We were so stunned, that we hardly noticed I had buried a switchblade in his eye.

So what would you and your newborn say to joining me on a trip to Anchorage? I’ve heard that the Northern Lights are beautiful up there.

Yesterday I went to the Mall of America and was duly inspired. The heavenly MoA featured

• more elevators than I have teeth (27)
• three Orange Julius’s and six Cinnabons to provide unadulterated gluten and sugar coated dreams
• a Sears the size of eight giraffes taped side by side and four hyenas on top of them, just laughing at you
• a JC Penny bigger than the world’s largest breadbox (hot mannequinns too)
• 42 magazine stores that sell pornography with enough porn magazines to stack to the moon
• A full-time year-round Santa Claus! (good kisser, slow hand)
• and a plethora of arcades, including one filled to the flask’s brim with only Dance Dance Revolutions!

Before I wandered in the the DDR Arcade I swallowed a four leaf clover.

Lucky little me, it just so happened that the St. Agnes School for Gout Ridden Girls’ cheerleading squad inhabited all but one of the DDR spots — and I got the last spot! Oh my god, it was like winning sixth place at the National Spelling Bee! I have to admit that I am a pretty bad mother on DDR, especially when they play country western or showtunes. I was nervous as hell — I couldn’t let those diabetic diabolical bitch-snatches beat me this time and what if they played rap, or worse yet post 1993 Madonna?

But thank you Virgin Mary, the stars aligned in my favor with the opening twang of John Denver’s “Please, Daddy, Don’t Get Drunk on Christmas” blasting throughout the arcade! I had first danced to this song when I was 6 during the Christmas that my dad switched over to barbituates and weed. The DDR machine was pretty well oiled up from the sweat of the adolescent she-beast before me so I powdered it up with talc, wheat flour and Gold Bond. I danced until 8 inches of colo-rectal came unfolding out of me.

I didn’t win, but I felt like I had won 6th place in a RuPaul “tuck off”.

The Mall of America is surely the best thing to ever happen to Minnesota. Before it, the only thing they had going for themselves was that they weren’t South Dakota.

I am playing some drunken air hockey with my current lover.

He is moving the puck quickly across the board, too quickly to get any hit in edgewise.

I just stand there.

He is moving the puck violently off the board – it flies off the table maybe five times. We have to run around looking for it. It gets buried under boxes. I help with that bit but otherwise just stand there waiting for a chance to move the puck at all.

He comments on my just standing there and then says, “That’s kinda like you in bed.”

Have you ever seen an ostrich in action? This early morning, before you were awake, I had the modest pleasure of watching my miniature brother ride one through Johannesburg! My brother had a seatbelt, of course, because as you must know, ostriches aren’t known as traffic law abiding citizens, and any good insurance agent will tell you ostriches are sixty times more likely to get in a car wreck than a bumper car. And those birds can run like my nose in the wind, even when hauling an 80 pound diminutive man licking his giant lollipop.

Watching my brother, my competitive side got a stronghold on me, shoving me back about three yards until I tripped over a drunk foreign exchange student and fell face first on my buttocks. I needed to beat my brother and I needed a cheetah on which to do it. We would race, a boy on his ostrich and a pudgy grown man on his cheetah. But where on earth could I find my cheetah?

I put my skull cap on to get some quality thinking done.

It hit me: the most natural residence of a cheetah, or any land loving fast paced feline would be certainly somewhere near water. My divining rod in hand, I made for the nearest community swimming pool.

Fifteen minutes later, Nathaniel, my dwarfish younger brother and I were at the starting line. I had just had a pound of ham, so my “fighting weight” was a bit over, but my shaved head and scrotum stood to help make up any lost time. A nearby policeman shot a black man who was voting in a “Pepsi Challenge” and our animals took off like a pair of NASA rockets. Only instead of the moon as their destination, they were apparently headed towards a sprained ankle (Nate’s ostrich) and a distended colon (my cheetah).

Thusly, we switched animals; the ostrich rode me and Nathaniel served as horse to the cheetah back to your house. Now we are all taking a bubble bath together. Would you like to join us, Athena?

Of course you would, you sassy amputee! I see that plastic ear of yours wagging under your wig. I remember when we first met, you and I. It was right here in this very tub was it not? Only you were pregnant then with the twins before the double abortion, and I was still uncircumcised. If my memory serves me right, Nathaniel was here and we were nursing an emu and a puma back to health. History has a habit of repeating itself doesn’t it? Link