The Real Origin of Dogs

You know what? Dogs have got to be aliens. They may not appear aliens on the surface, but after some though, it becomes obvious, After all, they have the superpower to melt people with a look. It's as if they live only to transform every human being in the vicinity into sirens, crying awwwwwwwwwww at the shear adorableness of their gigantic puppy eyes.

People don't appreciate them individually, either. In a moment of pure adorableness, everyone within range will emit the same exact noise, down to pitch, timbre, and length. This level of coordination in a group of random individuals implies, nay, screams psychic manipulation. The only logical explanation is that dogs, through sheer force of cuteness, can mold human minds and vocal chords into a veritable army of sighing dog lovers.

There can be only one explanation for this power. Dogs are actually aliens from a world where meaning is conveyed through transmitting cuteness to one another. A group of their species crashed on Earth by accident, after voyaging out from their home system, Sirius. Ever since, they have manipulated humans into giving them a comfortable living. The awwwwwwww that they so often evoke from us must be an attempt to transmit a message to their world to send a rescue team of crack Dog space pilots, thereby rescuing them from this undeveloped world and returning them to a place where they need not beg for their Scooby Snacks.

GGRRRRHHH

I suffer from an acute case of writer's block. Ideas float just beneath my conscious mind, bulging against the sides of a thought-tight bag of "have to do," "should do," and "want to do." I can squeeze and stretch the bag, occasionally seeing a glint of phrases that I do not know what to do with. The shadow of a theme plays behind my eyes. A snatch of a sentence whispers through my ears. Attempt to grasp it, and it simply evaporates, or shatters, then reassemble's somewhere else, pulls its drawers' down and moons me out of spite.

I wanted to write a song. It would begin with "The heart hangs from a string," but I have no idea what that means or where it intends to go.

I thought about a satire of some sort, yet suddenly, hyperbole and sarcasm seem utterly incomprehensible.

I had a beautifully strange feeling that I must put down in words before I burst my latex brain, but I know that if the words are not just right, I will rob myself of the mood. I feel like I do when a creature falls asleep in a position too adorable to bear and all I want to do is rush to it, grab it up in my arms and absorb its cuteness, but I know that in doing so, I will wake the poor thing and pop that bubble of cuteness forever.

I even tried to put all these frustration down in a post, but after a few paragraphs, I lost my head of steam and developed writer's block for my writer's block.

Doubtless

I am certain of it and nothing could change my mind that he did it, because I had to be there at that time, or at least I am pretty sure it was that time, but anyway I ended up there, although I may have been a little late, or possibly early depending on what the time was supposed to be, but I have no doubt that I was at least there when he came, that is, someone like him came, because they both had the hair with the thing and the stuff on his back, so it couldn't have been anyone else, even though I never really saw his face, but anyway they guy did it, you know, the thing with that stuff that, at least, I though was with the stuff, although it may have been different stuff, but there was stuff to it, because what's the point if it wasn't the right stuff?

So yes, I am positive he did it.

Rotted

He lived in a boarded up church, subsisting off of fungus, kept company by the walls. Every day, he wandered up and down the steps, listening to the wood and the squirming within. Step by step, his hands stroking the moldering wallpaper, he slid through his domain. Each wing and room had its own rhythm. The beings in the minister's old office had a brisk air to their nibbling, whereas the bell tower seemed more lackadaisical about the whole business. He no longer needed his eyes. Occasionally, a beam of light would cross his path. Blinking, he would open and close his shriveled lips over yellowed teeth, humming and mumbling his distress and confusion, until the automated steps carried him past the glow of day. After his fourth year there, one of the familiar stairs creaked, cracked, and spilled him in a long locked closet below. His neck twisted almost enough for him to taste the floor he lay supine on. His old friends explored him before returning to their wood.

Toy

Hello, Ladies and Gentlemen!

Please, stop by my shop.

Inside, I have every toy you could possibly desire.

I have women, who sing and women who dance.

I have men whose strength will astound you.

I have boys who know a thousand jokes and tales.

I have girls whose looks and manners would charm any man.

Come one, come all, and buy my toys.

Man is the best animal, and I sell only the best.

Spielzeug

Hallo, mein Damen und Herren!

Bitte, besuchen Sie mein Geschäft.

Dahin, habe ich jedes Spielzeug, dass Sie wollen können.

Es gibt Frauen, die singen und Frauen, die tanzen.

Es gibt Männer, deren Kraft Sie beeindrucken werden.

Es gibt Junge, die tausende Scherze und Märchen wissen.

Es gibt Mädchen, deren Aussehen und Manieren jedermann bezaubern.

Kommen Sie, bitte, kaufen Sie meine Spielzeuge.

Menschen sind am besten, und ich verkaufe nur das Beste.

Disaster!

IT'S A DISASTER!!! Close all the doors! Seal all the windows! No one must leave the building!

except of course to eat...

and we wouldn't want to keep you from the test review...

and clubs and sports can meet...

and why not host open swim and open the fitness center while we're at it...

and a movie would be fun...

JUST DON'T WALK 50 FEET TO VISIT FRIENDS!!!!!!!!

Then it would really be a disaster.