# AN INSIDIOUS TYPE OF BLOG POST

I want to warn you all about an insidious type of blog post. These posts are ironically self-referential, disguised as warnings about ironically self-referential blog posts. They are pointless and lead nowhere, but the goal of these posts is to entice the reader (you) into reading further, although the sentences, using apparently interesting multisyllabic, technical sounding words, lead nowhere. These posts often repeat themselves. They frequently say the same thing over and over again, but using different phrasing. Posts of this kind often describe themselves using the very characteristics of the blog posts they claim to be warning others to avoid. In fact, the posts are those very posts to be avoided, but by the time this is revealed, the reader has invested enough time on the blog post to continue reading, hoping for some payoff. Perhaps there is some insight hidden within the somewhat scientific-sounding jargon. It seems quite possible, that later in the blog post, the reader will find some comment on social-awareness, or some information regarding the psychology of ironically self-referencing posts. This is an illusion; the reader will gain no benefit from continuing to read this type of post, but even after several warnings, they continue to read. It is as if the blog post is physically pulling the eye across the meaningless symbols, forcing the mind to strive to combine the words into some coherent message, where none exists. It is a type of symbiotic madness, shared between the writer of the blog post, and the reader. For as the post is both written and read, the reader and writer are locked, however briefly in the same blog post. It is a type of suspended animation, because really, neither of us are doing anything useful, are we? The blog post will sometimes try to insinuate some connection between the reader and the post itself. They have been together a long time. It would be heartbreaking if there were no payoff, no point to any of this. Why did we read this?

So anyway, I just wanted to let you guys know that these types of posts are out there, and to be aware of them. If you run across one, don't read it! But perhaps it is too late.

I made a new chess set.

"that cat's gonna get in it."

"You put that box on the floor, that cat's gonna get in it."
"No it won't."
"Yes it will."
"There's no way for you to know that for certain."
"Yes there is. That cat's gonna get in that box. Look at him lookin' at it."
"It's a 'her.'"
"She's gonna get in that box."
"No she isn't."
"Yes she is."
. . .
"See?"
"Shut up."
"I told you. Look at her. Aw, she's so cute. Good kitty. You in the box?"
"Shut up."

#56 WEIGH THE TOWN IN COFFEE GROUNDS

Weigh the amount
Of the town in
Terms of the sound
Of thousands of pounds
Of coffee grounds.

In the soul of souls
In the mind there rolls
The thoughts beyond us,
Pound for pound.

A heavyweight thought
Un-thought by the minds
Of the blind, un-sublime
Ordinary kind.

You know, the folks
With the loose-cut thoughts
Like stupid jokes
With half-baked plots.

With reason seasoned
With unsound found
Around some sound of
Things dug from underground.

The un-weighed town
Full of drunken clowns
Who bring us down
With their braying sound.

Of half-assed, jackass
Tactless, thoughtless
Un-thought thoughts
Spoken always everywhere.

Gossip, rude conjectured
Generalizing, hell-bound
Heartless sermonizing
Needlessly demonizing.

Smaller now: the One-Time
Once Before—thought
Dreamy sequenced
Sleep-noised evening peace-ness.

The last great thinker
Thought this out
Without a doubt but
Didn't bother to write it down.

And now our methods
Are unsound and no one
Is around to point
The wayless way to
Lead us to another day.

Around the Doorway Door
We go but never through
Until we do
We wander babbling jingles
Between our sips of booze.

A dollar caught
With a spiteful thought
We ought not to be taught
By Sir Speaksalot.

Peal! Peal towering clock
To rock our aging thoughts
With things better left alone
And soon forgot!

Weigh the amount
Of the town in
Terms of the sound
Of thousands of pounds
Of coffee grounds.

for "shame!"

Sometimes, on the Internet, I see things about people "shaming" other people about you know, whatever. I've even seen these people referred to as "shamers." This is an unnecessary, watered-down word. There is already a tried and true word for people who harp on others in this way: those people are "assholes."

#55 THE ARMADA OF DEADLY DELIGHTS

The Armada of Deadly Delights
Plows through a brackish sea.
On the lead ship stands a figure,
Alone on deck in the breeze.

Below there's a dusky bordello,
With delights for both ladies and gents.
There's booze and dancing and food galore
From the seven continents.

One hundred luxury barges,
All follow a course for the edge.
But the music's all right and everyone's tight
The champagne is chilled in the fridge.

The Armada is hell bent for leather,
The engines are full speed ahead.
They're sailing off to the edge of the world
All the captains are already dead.

The revelers can't stop the party,
Though they think something might be wrong.
But they drink some more and try to ignore
While they dance to a popular song.

And the men below keep on shoveling coal,
And the engineers bite their nails.
The ships plow on; there will be no dawn
For the ships without any sails.

The edge of the world's getting closer.
The waterfall to the abyss:
And the passengers drink, so they won't stop to think
That maybe something's amiss.

Alone on the deck in the moonlight,
The Grim Reaper is nursing a beer.
If he looks to the West where the angle is best,
He can tell that the end is near.

My site: danmanning.com

#54 HAIR KINDA LIKE FARRAH FAWCETT

There's a sound beyond
The Doorway Door.
Let's open it
A little more.

What do you think
We'll find out there?
A monster combing
Its auburn hair?

Admiring its snout
And adorable pout
In a mirror, while drinking
A pint of stout?

Or a garden
Blooming under the sun,
With Sprites and Goblins
Having fun?

Or the infinite
Void of outer space?
With moons and stars
All over the place?

We cannot guess.
We'll have to go
Through the Doorway Door
And then we'll know.

The monster admires
Its eyes and roars
At the mirror it bought
At the Dollar Store.

The Goblins are drinking
And arguing sports,
Solo cups, barbecue,
Bermuda shorts.

A spaceship is docking
With Space-Station Nine
Delivering grain
And a shipment of wine.

The space-station caption
Is thinking of home—
Doesn't trust his wife.
She's back there alone.

The Sprites left the party
And went to a bar
(The Goblins were boring)
They went in the car

Belonging to Carol
(She works in HR)
Carol's been sober
For over a year.

Carol the Sprite:
Her husband's away
At the Space Port
She's lonely and tempted to stray

But enough about Carol!
I'm sure she'll be fine
If she sleeps with Diane,
She'll have a good time.

Anyway, none of that
Stuff's going on
The Doorway Door's
An enigma Beyond—

The Space Port Captain
Is under great stress
He's taking it out on his staff
It's a mess!

But this is mundane!
This is a bore!
You'd think we'd do better
In the Doorway Door!

The Sprites get a table
And order their drinks.
Diane looks at Carol,
And what do you think?

This poem isn't going
To be about that!
It should be profound,
More thoughtful and apt!

"I've prescribed you these pills,"
Said the Doc to the Captian
"For mild depression,
Don't worry—"

No poem! No!
This has gone all wrong!
And now you've managed
To go too long.

"Hey what about me?"
Monster wants to know.
"You forgot about me
Twelve stanzas ago."

"You look very nice,"
The poem responds.
"You're hair looks kinda like
Farrah Fawcett."

The monster grins,
Oh what a fright! And it asks:
"Did those two women
Hook up that night?"

"I really don't know!"
Exclaims the poem.
It's time to depart
The Doorway Door.

Oh now I get it!
We got the wrong door.
We were in the
Bore-way Door.

#41 WHILE THAT BRAIN

While that brain
Is reading these words,
Everything else will
Begin to blur

The time of day,
Wrong or okay,
Whether to go
Or sit and stay.

Problems with work,
Or dealing with jerks,
From that it's distracted
While this poem's enacted.

The words are winding
Through that brain
In the wrinkled parts
They will remain

This poem is there now,
It won't go.
There's more there now
Than a second ago

Couldn't that brain
Be doing more
Than reading words
From the Doorway Door?

No, it couldn't.
This is what
The brain decided
To scan and store.

The world beneath
That brain still spins,
And maybe that brain
Will read this again.

Or maybe not!
This poem forgot,
That brain will
Think about cats a lot

Or chicken-fried-steak,
Or the planet Mars,
Or the private lives
Of movie stars

Right and wrong,
Or a catchy song,
Hello brain!
Keep reading along.

Or stop! It turned
Or clicked away,
How will it read
What I have to say?

Now I'm alone.
An unread poem
My reader is gone.
This has gone all wrong.

But wait a second,
It must be there.
What else could read these words?
Thin air?

Oh there you are!
The brain has returned.
I'm glad you're still reading.
So what have we learned?

One brain exists.
This much we know.
And a pair of eyes—
Can you read this slow?

And now. I've slowed.
The reader. Down.
This punctuation.
Starts, to; clown,

Around with the speed
In which you read.
They dictate the speed
With which you proceed.

Thank you for stopping
By today.
I hope that brain
Will come again.

I hope these words
Meet or exceed
Your expectations
Satisfactorily.

The Doorway Door
Is beginning to close
Come back again.
(I'll write you some more.)

#42 DYSTOPIAN VALENTINE

When the banks
Have us all
In
Obedience collars

And a loaf
Of Faux-Bread™
Will cost
One million dollars

When everyone's broke
Or falling behind,
When everyone's drugged,
Or losing their mind,

When robots with
Badges
Are kicking down doors,

Never forget that
I'll always be yours.

#42A But We Forget In the Course of a Day

I am a skull beneath the earth,
My lipless grin, my only mirth.

My eyeless eyes, they skyward stare,
Up at the coffin lid, right there.
Just a few inches from my face
As dark and cold as outer space.

But haven't I already
Been like this?
A collection of atoms
Drawn from the abyss?

And won't I be
This way again?
To live and die
In the world of men?

Probably not.
So here I am,
Never to walk
The earth again.

A moldering corpse
With a miniscule grave
That can finally sit still
And has learned to behave.

I'll never go to work again.
I'll never commit a venial sin.
I'll rest and feel the galaxy spin.
I'll lie here grinning my endless grin.

We know we'll all end up this way,
But we forget
In the course of a day.

Our time is brief,
The time is nigh,
In just a few weeks,
In the ground we'll lie.

Graves lined up
In a tidy row,
In the grassy place
Groundskeepers mow

Or kept inside a special urn
But no matter what, we take our turn.

So live today,
And do that thing,
And hope to see
Another Spring.

Billions have gone,
And billions will go.
The passage of Time
Is fast, not slow.

The passage of Time
The decline of mind,
What was ahead
Is now behind.

The collapse of the spine,
Both yours and mine,
The ache of the joints
From the daily grind.

From the passage of Time
No one is saved.
It begins when we're born,
From cradle to grave.

So never give up,
And never say die.
Cause very soon,
In the ground, you'll lie.

So do it today,
(That plan in your head)
Cause you'll wish you had,
The moment you're ____.

I am a skull beneath the earth,
My lipless grin my only mirth.

No. I don't want to opt in.

How to eradicate the ominous "please opt in to the verizon in-store experience" notification:
settings / apps / My Verizon Mobile (app)
uncheck "show notifications"

#43 THE PREVIOUS SALTINES

The Previous Saltines
The gifts from God
Were found beyond
The Doorway Door

The Previous Saltines
Are dumb as stones
They never speak
Near microphones

The Previous Saltines
From outer space
Exist to save
The human race

The Previous Saltines
The salt of tears
Were shed for us
Ten thousand years

The Previous Saltines
In airtight sleeve
Are here for those
Who so believe

IT'S THE LAST DAY OF F.G.D.F.!

It's the last day of F#cking G_d D@#m  February. This motherf*cking G_d d#$m fncking month is over. Finally. This is the month that the illogic of an argument over a motherf*cking dress killed motherf*cking Mr. Spock. Actually killed him. Here's how his last few moments probably went:

"The vast technological communications network, that could be used to solve all the world's social ills, bring understanding to humanity, is being used to argue over the color of a motherf*cking dress? Humanity is moronic. This is so motherf*cking illogical, I no longer have the will to live."

And that motherf*cking killed him.

And the motherf*cking cold. How can it be so motherf*cking cold for som motherf*cking long? I ask you? How can anyone claim that we haven't broke the G_d d#$m motherf*cking atmosphere with this motherf*cking "polar vortex" bullshit lasting this long.

Motherf*cker. F#ck you February.

THE GRASS IS NOT ALWAYS GREENER (OR REDDER)

There's a mission, called Mars One, by a private company, to send volunteers on a one-way mission to mars. Now I want space programs to continue, I'm a big fan of science and space exploration.

But they are talking about a one-way mission to mars. And they're finding people to do this. Hundreds of thousands of people have volunteered.

I'm a fan of science fiction (good science fiction anyway) and the idea of space travel is fascinating.

But if these people are launched into space, there is going to be a point when some of them realize:  "Oh fuck, I shouldn't have done this."

There will be panic attacks and freak-outs, and when they run out of sedatives, they're in for some seriously messed up terror.

And the first time they have to jettison an dead body into space, the rest of them are going to think, "Holy fuck, I shouldn't have done this. This was a terrible idea."

And the ones to reach Mars are going to be some fucked up individual who all wish they had stayed home.

I'm all for space travel.  This plan might work, but those poor people.

You have to have a return plan. I mean Jesus Christ. Think about it.

#44 PSA POEM: ANOTHER REASON TO BE NICE.

All the little kids,
Out on the playground
Are learning to play together!

Running and jumping,
Laughing and learning!
They're all getting along!

(Except for Pete K,
From Mrs. R's class,
That kid is an asshole!
He pushes and shoves!)

But everyone else,
Is getting along!
Standing in line
They file into the school!

(Except for Pete K,
He's a little bully.
Whispering horrible things
Into Jacob's L's ear!)

The kids are in class,
Learning their lessons,
Learning to read
And to write and to add!

(Except for Pete K,
This kid is obnoxious,
He's making fart noises
And kicking Anne's chair)

The kids get together,
They're making a plan,
They whisper together
And look at Pete K!

The following morning,
Pete K's not at school,
And everyone's happy
And everything's cool!

All names in this story
Are fictional names,
If they sound like someone
Well that's just a shame.

So don't be the asshole,
At work or at school,
Your colleagues might
Be forced to do things un-cool,

Like poison your coffee,
Or follow you home,
So try to be nice,
And leave each other alone!

WEATHER CENTER, THIS IS BRAD...

"Weather Center, this is Brad, how may I help you?"

"I think your website is broken."

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience, could you tell me your name?"

"Dan. Look, I've checked the ten-day forecast for the past week, and the numbers aren't changing."

"Let me check the page.... let me see... it seems okay on this end."

"But the numbers, they're all similar, but those can't be real numbers. I cleaned out the cache. Is it pronounced 'catch,' or 'cash-ay?' anyway, I cleared out all my browser temp files, but these numbers are all negative and terrible, and they don't change."

"Sir, these are the real numbers."

"But can't you make them go up?"

"We only report the weather sir, we can't—"

"You can't do anything? For the love of God, you can't even try? You're the fucking Weather Center."

"Sir I assure you—"

"NO! No, you don't assure me. These aren't real numbers. This is insane! How long is this going to go on? What are you people doing? There's nothing you can do? Cloud seeding or whatever the hell the farmers do?"

"Sir, this is an unusually cold winter, but again, I can assure—"

(sobbing, line disconnects)

#45 TO ALTER FOREMOST "YES" ON THINGS GONE BY

To alter foremost "yes"
On things gone by
The buried precepts lost
In wayward thoughts

Of idle hours spent by
Somewhere else
While we our dollars make
By daily toil

Bleak, bleakest winter
Bone-snap cold
(driving indoors all,
the absent sun)

Diverse slanders
Uttered out-of-doors
Let bygone lip-synched prayers
Unanswered, fade

Ignored by yawning
Channel-surfing God
Who flips through decades
Clicking one by one

Sleep the death-like sleep
On crisp white sheets
Nocturnal thoughts of
Lost car-keys and things

The lumbering wonder
Thunders, underwhelmed
Hecate's whispered
Incantations lost

The Viking's funeral pyre will blaze
Up out into the sky
Upon the waves

Three thousand years
And not a minute saved
The sands of time
Will fall for anyone

Young faces wrinkle slowly,
Week by week
And strong backs slowly
Weaken, year by year

The dreams of long-dead men
Traverse the stars
To sadly settle planets yet unmade

The testaments of unnamed
Alien gods
Writ down on stones
Decayed one billion years

And everyone the pulverizing time
It grinds down every upstart
That it finds

To alter foremost "yes"
On things gone by
To move the minute hand
There yet again

The moon will close her eyes
And look away
The sun will smile and sadly
Shake his head

The sky will weep and stretch
From here to there
The earth will spin and say
That all is well

The graves will stand forgotten
Day by day
And everything will be
As it will be

To alter foremost "yes"
On things gone by
The buried precepts
Lost on scattered thoughts

#46 THE GUYS IN TIES

Guys in ties
Are in disguise
Because they know
You will surmise

That they are wise
And civilized
So they can tell
A thousand lies

"Deeply saddened,"
"Mistakes were made,"
"The documents were all mislaid."
"The emails somehow got deleted."
The biggest lies are most repeated.

An army of lawyers
Are all on hand
To lie in a language
We don't understand

And the guys with ties
In suits tailor-fitted
Will always manage to get acquitted
The system will maintain the status-quo
But if you are poor?
Off to jail you go.

FEET FREEZING TREATMENTS, NOW JUST $50.00 / HOUR

Are you tired of paying $75.00 or even upwards of $150.00 an hour for Foot Freezing treatments? Now you can have your feet frozen for a mere $50.00 for one full hour.

My home office features all the amenities you need for completely frozen feet in just minutes:

1. 1960 era tile floor directly over concrete slab brings your feet as close to the permafrost as you can get without going outdoors.

2. A window view on a frozen wasteland. Watch wildlife such as birds, squirrels, and other squirrels scamper for enough caloric intakes to survive sub-zero temperatures.

3. Internet access. View Facebook posts from your old classmates living in warmer areas as they brag about how @#$%ing warm they are.

In just minutes, your feet will be completely frozen. A bone-chilling experience. Added bonus for those of you suffering from Raynaud's disease: watch your affected toes turn bluish-white. Spectacular results! Here are just a few actual quotes from completely satisfied customers.

"My feet were freezing almost instantly. I felt like my toes were made of pure ice!"

"Is there a @#$%ing window open in here?"

"Is the heat off? Why is it so much colder in here?"

"This is like walking into a refrigerator."

Call or click today to learn more. Bring cash.

I'm too sexy for this post

I'm too sexy for this post, too sexy for this post
This post is the most.

I'm on Blogger, you know what I mean
And I type my little words in the textbox
Yeah in the textbox, in the textbox yeah
I type my tiny thoughts in the textbox

I'm too sexy for this update.