Harry Potter fans all know the spell Ron casted on his rat (and evil henchman for Voldemort) Scabbers trying to make him turn yellow. It goes

"Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, turn this stupid fat rat yellow!"

Well, I've come up with a few more like that.

"Froggies, clovers, lima bean, turn this stupid fat rat green!"

"Smurfs, clear skies, azul in hue, turn this stupid fat rat blue!"

"Liquorice, cherries, a cardinal that's dead, turn this stupid fat rat red!"

"Skittles, leaves, a moldy dime, turn this stupid fat rat lime!"

"Puffy clouds, marshmallows, cool whip lite, turn this stupid fat rat white!"

"Pigs, cotton candy, Cosmopolitan drink, turn this stupid fat rat pink!"

"Manure, beavers, a muddy town, turn this stupid fat rat brown!"

"Tinky Winky, grapes, an angry pilot, turn this stupid fat rat violet!"

16 Posts?

By now I was supposed to have written 16 posts, but have instead opted for seven I believe. It looks like today is going to be a writing day!

And now a silly poem about:

Alligators and Crocodiles

Every alligator has its hour,
every crocodile will devour--

Devour the alligator's hour,
taking all its power.

In the corner the alligator won't cower,
instead it will try to regain its power,

But it's too late to regain power,
because the crocodile ate the alligators power,

And boy was it sour.

99 Lead Balloons

99 Lead Balloons

BERLIN, GERMANY- Every child born in the 80's or before is familiar with pop-star Nena's song "99 Red Balloons." The song is catchy, it has a nice beat, and half the lyrics are in part German. What more could we ask for? Well, nearly 20 years after Nena's song was on the top of the charts, Nena provides the world with something even better.

Yesterday in the center of Berlin, surrounded by thousands of pipe-smoking, dread-lock wearing college kids stood Nena. Nena was staging a protest against the Berlin Wall and all of the horrors it brings Germany. (No one thought to tell her the Berlin Wall was taken down decades ago.)

In the midst of thousands of Grateful Dead listening youngsters, Nena gave the following speech: "I am here today to protest the Berlin Wall. Why should West and Easy Germany be separated anyway? What is "the man" going to separate next? Peanut butter from jelly? Tom from Jerry? Rosie O'Donnell from donuts? It's grotesque. . .which is why I hold 99 lead balloons in my hand. By releasing these balloons into the air, we are letting go of hatred. And now, the following poem by myself, Nena:

"Berlin Wall, oh Berlin Wall, I hate you.
I wish you'd just be hit by a thousand pound kangaroo.
German Democratic Republic, you suck for putting this wall up.
I'm now going to release these lead balloons. . .yup."

Nena released the balloons, as the stoned crowd roared. Nena shed a single tear. . .and then there was an explosion. Onlookers later reported a small aircraft crashed into a main fountain in Berlin, and there were no survivors. Nena was mortified, that is, until local firefighters notified her that the prime minister of Malaguena was killed from the crash. (He is the man solely responsible for slave labor, the Mariah Carrey movie Glitter, and the swine flu.)

Scientists on the case say the lead balloons ran straight into one of the wings on the prime minister's plane which sent him and his evil crew into a tailspin. The pilot over-corrected the plane, and was then distracted by the other 98 lead balloons appearing to have settled directly in front of the plane's front window. The probabilities of this occurring are one google to one.


After Nena is asked the question "How do you feel knowing you got rid of the evilest man on the planet?" she replies "It was okay. I would say the greatest I've felt this week though was after someone told me the Berlin Wall has been torn down. I think it was my poem that did it. I guess every dog has it's day."

Right you are, German, former pop-star, iconic idiot.

Interview with Tyra Banks

Imaginery Interview with Tyra Banks-- It’s Ty Ty Baby!




Tyra Banks is a woman of many talents. She can sing. She can dance. She can act. She can model. But perhaps her greatest and most practiced talent is her ability to turn any conversation to one that is about her. Don’t believe me? Read the following interview, and watch as Tyra’s ego grows larger than Kristie Alley.

SS: Thank you for joining us Tyra! How does it feel to be in Winona?

Tyra: Thank you for having me- Tyra Banks- to Winona. It feels great to be here. Really, I’m just excited to start being an educator- instead of normally just being a singer, dancer, actor, and model.

SS: I’m not exactly sure what you mean by “educator.” Do you mean to say you’re excited to be at this interview so you can teach more people about the real Tyra?

Tyra: Well no. That’s ridiculous. Everyone knows about me- Tyra banks. I’m just excited to start teaching these poor Winona kids how to read.

SS: I’m afraid I don’t understand.

Tyra: I feel so sorry for your lack of knowledge on your own town. Well, as you know, 90% of children in Winona cannot read. I want to change that.

SS: And where exactly did you get those statistics?

Tyra: Well when I got off my Tyracopter, I saw a group of about twenty kids at a park. So I asked them- How many of you have read my book “Tyra the Tyrant and other Characteristics of Tyra,” and saw that only a few of them raised their hand. Obviously if they have not read my book, they cannot read.

SS: That’s quite a large acqusation. So you believe if kids haven’t read your book, they cannot read?

Tyra: Did I start my modeling career when I was only 12 years old?

SS: Er...What?

Tyra: The answer is yes...to both questions.

SS: So you said you have a book out. What’s it like?

Tyra: My book is scarier than King, more romantic than Steele, and much greater than Faulkner. For gosh sake, it is me- Tyra Banks- writing the book.

SS: It’s so refreshing to see a celebrity sell more copies of a book than an actual writer with actual merit. . . You don’t see that much.

Tyra: Well it is me- Ty-

SS: Yes. YES. I get it. It’s you, Tyra Banks writing the book.

Tyra: Did you know I missed my high school prom for a photoshoot? That was a tough time for me.

SS: . . .You don’t have to turn the conversation. It’s already about you.

Tyra: What’s greater than one conversation about Tyra though? The answer is two. Two conversations about Tyra.

Real World

This is one of those exercises lazy writers do when they hit writer's block. They just start typing. Well, this is one of those times.





I’m a pretty laid back person. I don’t really cause too much trouble. It’s hard to get me angry. So when I was chosen to be on Mtv’s Real World I was, well, pretty confused for two reasons. A. I never signed up. And B. usually the people on there are psychotic, drunken whores. But then I realized. . .maybe they saw that time at church that I snuck an extra sip of el vino Christo?

A week later I find myself outside a large townhouse in the middle of Brooklyn, with five other strangers. As the girls are all hugging each other and squealing and the guys are fist bumping, I stand there awkwardly. One of the guys- Pat- comes and picks me up. I think he expected me to flirt back or something. Instead I asked him a question. “How long do you think it would take me to take out my phone and call a lawyer?” The question left little Pat stumped, and so I progressed. To the three girls I went down the line and decided to use my Irish accent. I’m not really sure why. “Top of the morning to you, lassies!” I exclaim whilst I click my heels in the air. I don’t think they appreciated a little European in the morning. Then there was the last guy- Chaz. He looked like a real winner. He sat there with a vacant expression: mouth open, eyes glazed over, wearing his pants backwards. Wait, what? How did he even manage that? The caveman walks over to me and asks if I’m excited to go in the house. I reply, “Is the pope Catholic?” He squints his eyes hard, looking like he’s trying to have a thought pass through his head. “I think he’s Christian.”

Edgar and Lola

Edgar and Lola

Every now and then, my world needs to be replaced by another one. The replacement world doesn’t have to be bigger, better, newer- just different. Whenever I enter room 402 in my school at St. Bernard's, that replacement of worlds becomes essential to surviving. Well okay not essential. . .the teacher in the class is just sort of evil.

Anyway, today, its fiction author Grayer Sweeden changing my world from a dull homeroom to an epic landscape: from desks to mountains, ceilings to dusty gray skies, students to mischieveous bankers, abandoned orphans, and plotting stepsons.

I’m in front of the 402 door now. My book, The Moped is in hand, my gaze set at the floor. I don’t look up as I make my way to a desk in the back, right hand side of the room. I toss my bag to the wooden floor and rest Sweeden’s open book on the small surface of the desk. As soon as my eyes begin skimming the page, I begin to enter another world. It’s happening. The classroom walls have disappeared. I am standing in the middle of an abandoned carnival on a gloomy, white-skied day. The lightbulbs on the rides are casting reds, blues, greens everywhere. The ferris wheel stands erect in the middle of it all- towering at least 300 feet above everything else. I am mesmerized by its beauty. Sweeden paints the picture- the bulbs on the wheel’s beams twinkling, the empty seats swaying eerily in the wind. I begin to silently glide towards it-

-“ Now stand up and introduce yourself, Edgar. Come on, don’t be so public school. Have some decency and respect, new kid.”

My teacher startles my daydream with his strict, mocking voice. All at once, the twinkling lights, along with the rest of the glowing carnival change back into the florescent lights of the classroom ceiling.

“Of course, Mr. Gashner.” A figure catches the corner of my eye. In the front of my room, a boy stands up. Edgar’s dark brown hair is neatly trimmed- at least from what I can see from the back. He’s tall- over six feet. And then I catch something interesting- Edgar is wearing a gray tweed blazer, and it looks like it came from another prep school. Why would someone switch prep schools halfway through senior year? Edgar is standing up. “Hi, I’m Edgar. Now if you all don’t mind, in order to avoid rumors, I would like to tell you the true reason I came to St. Bernard’s halfway through the semester.” I watch as three girls in front stop doodling on their notebooks, and turn in their chairs to face Edgar. Two boys in the back have stopped making paper airplanes.

“Well,” Edgar continues with a sigh, “Two years ago, my stepmom Vicky brutally murdered my dad with an aerosol can. Being confused, I ran away.” Why does that sound so familiar? Then it dawns on me, and I attempt to hide my smile, while Edgar pauses for a moment to dab his eyes.

“At a rest stop, I met a man named Pav who graciously took me in. For the past six months I have been traveling the country with him. I have met many great people along the way- including the principal here. In fact, after I told the principal about my situation, he told me he’d take me in here at St. Bernard's. . .and now here I am.”

At this point, I couldn’t stifle my giggle any longer. “Is something funny to you, Miss Opus?” Immediately wiping the smile off my face, I innocently look up to Edgar and ask, “This man, Pav. Did he, by chance, have an affair with your Aunt Glenda?”

Edgar turns around, now shaking with what must be laughter (but could very easily be viewed as crying.) He dramatically whales "Yeeees!" The students around him awkwardly pat him on the back, as other students eye me curiously, whispering "How did you know that?" I shrug innocently.

“Well! I think we’ve heard enough about Edgar for today. Everyone be nice to the kid. I was mistaken; he’s not from the public school. So everyone can forget about treating him as an outcast- you may treat him like our own. That is all, now talk for the rest of the hour.” Mr. Gashner states with the wave of a dismissive hand.

I look over at Edgar, and he’s grinning right at me. I can feel the blood rush to my face, all the way up to my hairline. Quickly, I rush to bury my nose in my book, but before I can even get it open, I see Edgar making his way toward me. I sit up straight, attempting to look like I have composure.

“Edgar, is it?” I ask.

Edgar tries to stifle another smile, fails, and then says, “Lola, how did you ever know Pav had an affair with my aunt?” Edgar asks with a slight smile.

“You know, I actually just finished that chapter,” I say, pointing to my book. “Believe it or not, your life sounds a whole lot like this book, The Moped.”

Edgar dramatically puts one hand on his chest and gasps. “Well, I never! That is just crazier than anything I’ve ever heard! Are you telling me, my life is all in that book right there?”

I laugh again, this time it comes out loud and embarrassing. “What would the students of St. Bernard think of you if they knew you weren’t at all telling them your past history, but in fact just recapping the first half of The Moped?” I ask with a fake scolding tone.

“To be honest with you, Lola, I don’t know that anyone else in this school has read that very large and very complicated book you’re holding. I think my secret’s safe.” With a smile and a wink, Edgar heads back to the seat up front where his tattered canvas bag is.

Edgar sits down and immediately the two girls who were doodling before flock around him. “Edgar, I can’t believe that happened to you! You must have been- like- really scared!” Edgar peers at me through the corner of his eye for a quick instant, then puts on the fakest sad face I’ve ever seen.

“That’s not even the worst of it. My cousin tried to throw me off the top of a ferris wheel last summer after I made out with his girlfriend.”

The girls throw their hands over their mouths. Now that’s just annoying. I haven’t read that part yet.

Ding, ding, ding. Three bells in D# signify the end of homeroom.

I get up quickly, throw my book in my bag, and rush out the door before Edgar can give away anymore of the story.

Grumble Grumble. . .

Writers block. I'll make up for it later.