bush approval rating Brain Farts Brain Fart brain farts brain fart brain-fart brain-farts brainfart brainfarts LEO Louisville Eccentric Observer parody lampoon satire Louisville Kentucky Kevin Gibson kgramone@aol.com kgramone humor cat's ass fart anna kournikova zeitgeist bush approval rating
Brain Farts was a weekly humor column that ran in the Louisville Eccentric Observer from mid-2000 until the summer of 2002. It was, well, eccentric. And occasionally satirical. And sardonic. Some liked it, some hated it; some just didn't get it, and that's OK. There were times when I didn't get it either. I've compiled here some of the archives from Brain Farts for the enjoyment of friends, family and anyone else who happens by. I also have written some new Brain Farts, and added some links and other trivialities that you shouldn't be too concerned with.
Unless you're as bored as I am.
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Brain Farts: Things Heard at the Copy
Machine |
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By Kevin Gibson |
The
other day I was standing by myself at the copy machine, waiting for my progress
reports to be cranked out and collated in triplicate. Then the copier started
talking to me.
"The president of the company hates you and wants you dead," it said.
"No he doesn't," I said, "He just thinks I'm a useless geek."
"No, seriously, I heard him tell the girl from accounting," the copy machine
insisted. "He honestly wants you dead."
"Not true," I replied. "Could you please just finish my copies?"
"You know," it continued, "your girlfriend is cheating on you."
"No, she isn't," I shot back. "That's ridiculous."
"Oh yes she is," it said. "She craves other men constantly and is planning to
leave you for your best friend -- or maybe your dad."
"I don't know where you get your information, but you're wrong," I hissed.
"You're not as well endowed as the average man," the copier then informed me.
"That is definitely true. Admit it."
"Oh, like you'd know," I said. "Sheesh."
"Your family criticizes you behind your back," it said. "They consider you the
black sheep."
"Only that one emotionally retarded aunt," I retorted, "and she acts that way
toward everyone."
"Hmpf," it said. "So you think."
"What's with you, today, anyway?" I asked the copy machine.
It went on to explain that it was only trying to keep me from looking foolish to
those around me -- that it was a way of protecting me from the hurt that would
surely follow after I learned for myself that each of these things was true.
Absolutely ridiculous, I told myself. None of these things could possibly be
further from the truth.
"Another thing," the copy machine said, just as I'd begun to feel relatively
good about myself again. "You're not funny, and you're not a good writer."
"Aw, now that's it," I told it. "You've gone too far. I've got enough
self-esteem issues without common office machinery running me down every time I
want to make a few duplicates of my progress reports. You ought to be ashamed of
yourself, trying to bring down people's feelings of self worth like this. You're
nothing but a piece of machinery that can be turned off or unplugged, so what do
you know about my shortcomings as an individual?"
"I know that you were a failure as a husband, which is why you're divorced," it
began. "And that you're a lousy father, even though you try to convince yourself
you're not. I also know that you'll never fully commit to anyone, because you're
just another serial monogamist, so you'll never have a deep, meaningful, lasting
relationship like emotionally well-adjusted people do. And your feet stink."
I just stared at the copier as my last few copies fell into the tray and the
"remove original" light flicked on. I cleared my throat to speak, but remained
silent.
"Doesn't it suck to be so neurotic?" the copier said.
"It really does," I agreed. "I need therapy."
"At last, we see eye-to-eye," it said. "We are of like minds."
That's when I taped the "Out of order" sign to it. Stupid machine.
E-mail the writer at kgramone@aol.com. But
don't ask him how he comes up with this stuff.