More Than True, A journal of. Published under the auspices of the HiSky* Trust, founded 1957 to promote disorder. (*Hiss-Key)
HiSky Trust ReviewThis is a selection of older material from my first book “Rhyme or Treason, hard fought illusion of choice.” This is basically the sampler CD I used to bring to readings, without the ebook which was included on the CD.
[amazon asin=B002OHD220&template=iframe image]
Once I was at a theater as a zombie movie was letting out and I overheard a serious looking man in a suit say to his partner while exiting, “Highly improbable.”
Everyone’s a critic.
An image, stolen from Richard F. Yates, having not a damned thing to do with this article, yet capturing the ennui of the issue.
“Phillip Currie from the University of Alberta has recently uncovered a juvenile Chasmosaurus belli that was so complete and intact, he was actually able to speculate about the cause of death.”
Source: New Baby Dinosaur Fossil Reveals Cause of Death | IFLScience
*** Sadly, the dinosaur expired after eating plastic.
It is past time we ban dumping of non-biodegradable garbage in the distant past. We would already be seeing the complications of this dumping, were it not for the fact that our dumping of toxic waste is constantly changing our current reality. “It all looks the same to me” say the temporal shift change deniers. But mark my words: The garbage you dump in the past will return to you thousands of times over, even if you don’t ever realize it.
Emoticon by Richard F. Yates
via his site image links to
I lost my emotions in a previous decade.
Coincided with a war, I think.
I simply put them somewhere and they disappeared. I can only assume someone took them. And somebody is out there right now, you see, playing with my emotions.
People think Trauma Bunny is funny. Yes, even that time he was drowning in honey. People laughed and laughed and helped not at all. It was lucky for the bunny he got out of that sticky situation at all. Nightmares in the day has he. Yes, he is always dreading the return of the bumble bee.
Three men walk into a bar…
At this point a lady asks me, “Why men?” And I say, “It’s a sexist joke.”
This art stolen from Richard F. Yates, C’mon, click it.
Three Swedes walk into a bar. It is full of leprechauns. It is the wrong bar. They are lost. “Who is lost, the Swedes or the leprechauns?”
The Finnish man asks the Irish man how it’s going. “Oh, could be worse. I still have the one leg.” Arbitrary Ethnic Humor.
Science is the cruelest discipline. Followed by comedy.
When science and comedy meet they intersect. And then they are dissected. It is cruel. Doubly so. Cutting.
Three scientists walk into a bar. It is the start of a cruel social experiment. The result is a matter of interpretation. Based on evidence.
One scientist says to the other, “I thought you were in control.”
“No,” says another, “I said I was the control.” Misinterpretation=comedy.
The role of the third scientist is observational. The humor in this needs no explanation, as it is universal.
Three bears walk into a bar. They argue about the relative coldness of the porridge. Then they start to make trouble.
Three Magi walk into a bar. It’s a setup. They are robbed of precious metals and fragrant oils.
Two thousand years later, three mobsters walk into a bar, only to discover that it’s a setup. They sit there, feeling foolish, waiting for the inevitable punchline.
The joke goes right over their heads. They are not the intended audience. No, this joke is not for them.
Three men walk into three different bars, simultaneously. Joke averted.
A Priest, a Rabbi, and a Laughing Hyena walk into a bar. The bartender asks, “Is this a joke?” There are many hurt feelings this day.
Perils of Free Thought: a book of no small danger [amazon asin=B0080AGLNC&template=iframe image]
In the folklore of the IWW Mr. Block is a man who never does anything right. He stands up for all the wrong things and is disappointed with the outcomes.
When I was in the seventh grade Mr. Block was my woodshop teacher. Not only was he Mr. Block because he taught woodshop, he was Mr. Block because whenever something raised his ire he would throw a random wood block at students.
Wood blocks would whiz through the air, wobbly projectiles barely missing random student heads. Then, often, colliding or not colliding with their intended target. Mr. Block had terrible aim; which was just one of his many sins.
One day a random block whizzed within an inch or two of my ear. My left ear. One of my two favorites. The intended target/victim sitting behind me and to my left.
When the projectile hit him he shouted, “Hey, you can’t do that.”
Mr. Block was incensed. More incensed than he was when he decided to launch an attack.
He basically said that he could do anything he wanted to in his classroom. Wherein I said, “No, he’s right, you can’t throw things.”
This made him even angrier. Mr. Block was well known for throwing things at students in class. Everyone knew this. In retrospect I must wonder if anyone ever challenged him before.
He said, to me, “This is none of your business!”
I said, “You made it my business.”
He said, “How would you like to go explain yourself in the office?”
I said, “I’d love to.”
Later, in the administrative wing, and all schools have ever-expanding administration wings, the assistant vice principal tried to take the side of Mr. Block.
I pounded my fist on the table and demanded  justice.
The assistant vice principal said, “How would you like me to call your father?”
I told him I thought that was a terrific idea. The only good idea he had thus far that afternoon.
My father, a union representative, came into the office later that afternoon and chewed out the assistant vice principal. And told him that, in fact, teachers cannot throw projectiles at students in class. And that assistant vice principals could not attempt to punish third party students who voice opposition to the throwing of projectiles in class. This was expressed in a low voice but in no uncertain terms.
And I never again saw a piece of wood fly through the air at school. At least not in my presence.
I stole this image of an Easter Bunny from That Great Beast, Richard F. Yates.
David Raffin
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