Sunday, May 22, 2016

Stolen pen no longer rolling

I knowingly and publicly stole a pen from a recent pokie palace visit—I was at reception, held their pen up and said "I need a pen; can I please have it?" and they did not say no—but it was sans pen led and of the tubular kind.

Which means when I place it on the book in the shed where I note my exercise and other metrics unless the book is flat the pen rolls off and into the innards of the box of crap the book sits on.

So I needed to make the stolen pen stop rolling. I thought "I wonder if I have a dead pen with with a lid in the crap drawer?"—a drawer in an old wooden vanity table where the slurry of former office desk tat was poured upon entry to the shed—only to open the drawer to see a glorious blue pen lid without a pen in dire need of a pen to slot on.

It was like I'd become the Tinder for pens and pen lids. 

I hope the sentient pens from that planet Zaphod's friend Veet Voojagig discovered (1) know this if they ever invade Earth that I helped pens and pen lids from different places hook up and find synchronicity.

I am one with the pen people. 

I can, of course, also be helpful in rounding up others to toil as per their pen-based needsink factories, pen-bling salons and so forth (2).

(1) The inhabitants of which are implied were later enslaved by Zaphod then sold. 
(2) Why am I always so ready to chuck it in and serve alien overlords? Am I the sort of petty man that craves power and, upon an alien invasion, see the means to obtain power by chucking in with the occupiers like someone in Vichy France or Quisling's Norway? I like to think not but then when I blog I keep comedically insinuating I would instantly kow-tow and serve our new masters in any capacity. Maybe it's an evolutionary thing, an instant desire to submit to glorious and correct authority like a Trump voter? No, if I look back on a life of active standing up and insisting on correct and proper treatment of people such colleagues, clients and the vulnerable then I'd be hot-footing into the hills to join the rebels and stay back at camp to entertain the children while the able-bodied resisters are heading off to sabotage. Fuck that running about the woods with guns shit. I'm next to the fire telling stories. 

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