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I can make this joke because it is also the truth.
I feel like I should add the caveat that my obsessive-compulsive thing with numbers is currently not significantly interfering with my life...but I'm definitely keeping an eye on it, because I know that won't necessarily always be the case. YMMV.
"Let's see...uh, the attendance policy. I won't give any hard-and-fast rules, here, but obviously if you're always here and always on time, with your little row of perfectly pre-sharpened pencils, etc., that's not super charismatic. But you gotta put in enough face time for us to form a positive opinion of you, too. Learning to strike this balance is what we're all about in Popularity 101, and going on to the intermediate and advanced popularity courses, too."
The subject of today's Remake Monday was first posted on 2022-03-28.
"Your Honor, the defendant clearly violated the Wishes and Intentions Act, article 3 which states that, 'No genie or other wish-granting magical being may grant a wish against its primary, intended meaning without first obtaining the verbal confirmation of the wisher'. When my client wished for 'personal growth', this genie flouted the law by willfully ignoring my client's intent and granting the wish in an undesirable and gruesome way."
The subject of today's Remake Monday was first posted on 2015-05-05.
The original also included the following continuation text:
'Boxerton: the Band' started with a groundbreaking concept: what if, instead of hitting drums, we hit cardboard boxes? Cardboard boxes also make sounds when you hit them, and also they are much cheaper than a drum kit. This line of reasoning was so simple that Steev (sic) the lead drummer was absolutely baffled that no one else was doing it.
The air was also heavy like a ton of bricks, only breathable. The air was also alsø heavy like a sock full of nickels, but the author worried that such a description would be needlessly obscure for an international audience.
The ground knew what it had done but wasn't the least bit sorry.
———
The subject of today's Remake Monday was first posted on 2012-02-01, where it occurred in text-only form.
The professionally friendly person had urged him to have a nice day, and he had responded with the requisite blandness. Little did he know that the very next day would be the nicest of his entire life, beginning with the smell of blueberry pancakes and ending, not unpleasantly, with the crackle and glow and smoke of an uncontrolled fire.
Later that night, back at the lair, he got down on hand and knee to beg forgiveness. "I have failed you, Master; he would not guess what."
The Master strode out from the shadows, its possessed body's clumsy backwards strutting in no way detracting from the dreadful aspect of this evil being. From the chicken's rear end it spoke: "It is of no importance, Kyle. There will be others who are more susceptible. Others who will ask what. And when they do..."
"Yes, Master. I will tell them: Chicken butt."
A muffled laugh. "And then they will be under my control."
Roger had, as a younger man, already come to accept the Universe's cold indifference to him and to all life. In fact, he himself responded to it with a general disinterest of his own, and was not on the whole very sad or very happy.
It was quite a surprise, then, when he received a letter sent from the Universe informing him that he'd got it all wrong. Although, the Universe admitted, its general policy towards all life, all matter and anti-matter, and for that matter all of time and space was one of absolute indifference, Roger had earned the rare distinction of drawing its particular loathing.
"Welcome to the Ministry of Truth, Complaints Department. How may I assist you today?"
___"I just wondered if I could talk to someone about some discrepancies I've noticed. That is, between the Ministry's official statements and observable reality."
"I see. Well, this is a common enough question that the answer is right here in this pamphlet. See? 'While it stands 100% behind its official statements, the Ministry of Truth can make no absolute guarantee of the accuracy of observable reality'."
___"..."
"Is there anything else I can help you with today?"
The Universe hoped, before its eventual heat death, to meet (somehow, somewhere out there) another nice universe. Maybe settle down and grow old together. At any rate, to enjoy a little companionship before the end.
Up to this point, Adam thought, someone else had been telling the story of his life. It had been heavy on exposition and awkwardly engineered plot developments that always felt forced and inorganic. He had trouble being invested in the life of the protagonist, let alone any of the secondary and tertiary characters. Adam felt it was time to take control of his story and tell it his own way, and resolved to do so very soon. Unfortunately for Adam, this was when his narrator decided to send a derailed freight train through Adam's bedroom and thus also through Adam himself, ending the story then and there.
Nobody steals my story from me. Especially not my characters. Let this be a warning to the rest of you.
Love,
the narrator
Once there was a universe that not only revolved around, but was also contained in and formed from, the mind of a single being named George. George did not know that he was his own universe in its entirety, because he made no efforts to investigate the matter; he assumed that this was the case even as he interacted with his own mental projections of characters who, for all he knew, might have been real individuals with free will and their own rich inner lives.
George was a lazy jerk, and The Elder Council of the Metaverse passed unanimous judgment that the best thing to do would be to leave George there, totally alone, for whatever duration his existence ended up having. He wouldn't mind, and it would be far better for the other beings of the vast multitude of universes to never have to meet him.
The lesson, in this case, is to be like the bird: if someone is intruding on your personal bubble, bodily fluids are an excellent deterrent.
"And who shall we send to carry out this holy task?" asked the angelic coordinator.
"How about the normal two? Or are they busy?"
"No...but do you recall the, ahem, episode with Sodom and Gomorrah? I don't believe we anticipated their...overwhelming attractiveness. The mortals were not well equipped to deal with it."
"The angel of death, then?"
"If you think it's that drastic..."
"Fine. Send the arson angel. But don't come complaining to me when you have to send even more angels to put out fires. Literally."
"And figuratively," said the angelic coordinator, with a shake of the head. "Arson angel does what arson angel wants, I'm afraid."
