The first note is:
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
The first note is:
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Monday, December 21, 2009
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Now, on one occasion in the past, when the rest of my family locked me out of the house, I have managed to brake into it. (... Yeah, that's right, I drove right towards it, and then put on the brakes as I smashed into the side of the house. >< Darn spelling mistakes... Anyway...) The most successful method is to climb from our second-story porch onto the roof, and walk along it to the third-story window, which is usually unlocked. Sadly, that window was not unlocked today.
So I ended up on the roof in the dark, having just come to the realization that I was trapped outside the house for the next two hours. Also, it was raining. And I was in my good Sunday clothes, which aren't the best for climbing up roofs in. And I mentioned I was sick, right? And... on the roof?
I managed to climb down, which coincidentally is a bit tougher than climbing up, and I had to sit in my car until my family got back. On the bright side, it was kinda spooky to sit in the car at night, so I had fun. And I read a lot of The Grapes of Wrath. But it did get increasingly colder in the car, and I don't have a whole lot of body fat to protect me in the first place. I appreciate being warm much better right. And I'm feeling less sick. Maybe I killed my virus.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Let's first look at the analog world. Here in real life, there are three options if someone wants to get a book, listen to music, or watch a movie. He must either 1) pay for it, either by buying at a store or watching in a theatre, 2) steal it, or 3) check it out from a library. All three options have their downside. Number one costs money, number two risks punishment and/or moral degeneration, and number three is temporary, takes longer, and sometimes doesn't work, if the book or dvd is rare.
Now, over on the online world, there are only two options if someone wants music, a movie, or a book. He must either 1) pay for it (through iTunes, Kindle, ect.) or 2) steal it. There is very little downside to stealing, as it is nearly impossible to be punished for it. Although some music companies have tried to sue people who have illegally downloaded music, their efforts haven't made a significant difference, since there are hundreds of millions of people, and they can only sue a handful. Depending on your point of view, some of the moral problems with stealing music online are diminished, too, since no one actually loses the music, you just make a copy.
But think about it. With libraries, the real world has presented an extra option, which everyone is satisfied with. Technically, authors everywhere should be complaining, since libraries only pay for a book once, but then lend it to hundreds of people, who all read it. The author only gets one royalty even though he is read hundreds of times. This is the same thing that happens online, where music is only bought once, but is then distributed to thousands of other people. But at libraries, nobody complains. Why? Because people are used to it, and everyone expects it. And also because authors know that the word-of-mouth will help them become more prolific.
So, since libraries work so well in the real world, I think it's high time that we got some electronic versions on the internet. People who don't want to steal, but also can't afford to buy everything they want would finally have another option. In addition, one of the problems with physical libraries would be solved; no wait time. There would still be a few downsides to it; the more rare things will probably still be hard to find, and I would recommend making the downloads temporary, in keeping with physical libraries.
And yes, before anyone mentions it, I do know that there are a few online libraries available. None of them have nearly as large a collection of books, and I don't know of any that offer movies and music.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
There's 70+ hours of it by now, so you won't run out for a while. Most of it's even good, too. It's a pretty high quality podcast.
''Last night some friends and I went to Toys R Us at midnight with about a thousand other eager Black Friday shoppers. Except we weren't there to shop. We were dressed as Spartans, and we walked up and down the line, and shouted out a speech encouraging our fellow warriors to stay strong and take heart in the upcoming battle for their children's happiness. MLIA''
I am SO doing that next year.
Irony is a boundin' over the hills like a majestic jackalope.
I always thought that irony would look like a jackalope when it abounds. I think this came from watching that Pixar short about a jackalope called "Boundin'". I didn't really like that short much, though... I think that the one about a magic act that just came out with WALL-E is much better.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
|What you think|
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Apparently, there is a type of martial art that modifies jujutsu to incorporate the walking canes carried by gentlemen of the Victorian era.
An except from the article explains it well:
"Bartitsu was the brainchild of Edward Barton-Wright, an English engineer who, while in Japan, was taken with a demonstration of jujutsu—itself almost a catch-all term for systems of Japanese grappling with a dash of striking. He quickly took up the art himself. After learning a smattering of judo (sport-oriented grappling) as well, he returned to England and soon set about making himself a public expert on matters of self-defense for the urban upper classes. Barton-Wright's earliest public demonstrations and publications displayed simple jujutsu skills, but soon he expanded his system. Adding boxing, savate (French kickboxing), canne de combat, and a smattering of Western wrestling styles to the Eastern arts, Barton-Wright unveiled bartitsu to the world in 1898.
One could call bartitsu the first modern mixed-martial art and it was certainly one of the first self-conscious attempts to mix Western and Eastern self-defense techniques. Barton-Wright recognized that fights have various ranges. The cane—and no gentlemen ever went without a walking stick of some sort—extends one's reach and lets a fellow defeat an opponent without dirtying his hands or coat. At a closer range the fist and foot come into play, and jujutsu and wrestling are necessary to deal with one's opponent’s boxing skills."
That's right, it's a real live martial art perfect for steampunk stories. I'll certainly have to incorporate it into mine...
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Now, one of the phrases that the ones who think they're smart are fond of repeating whenever the stupider ones complain about a video is, "If you don't like it, you don't have to watch it."
On the surface, this seems like an intelligent statement. But think about it some more. If that advice were followed, all the videos on Youtube would have glowing recommendations, regardless of how good they were. Telling people to leave when they don't like something doesn't actually make sense. People should be able to give their opinion, regardless of whether it said opinion fell out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down.
So that's my rant on Youtube posters.
Actually, let me keep going. They have a collective intellect only rivaled only by garden tools. Their IQs are the same as the room temperature. On a cold day. There are enough idiots on Youtube to supply several billion villages. If you gave them a penny for their thoughts, you'd get change. Most of them have minds like a steel trap: rusty and illegal in 37 states. If you put one of their brains on the edge of a razor blade, it would be like putting a BB on a four-lane highway. They would all lose a debate with a doorknob, and you can tell by watching them arguing, since that's about how smart they are.
And I'm allowed to insult them because I do it in funny ways. >nod<
Don't worry, I'll try to make my next post a little less negative and condemning.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Perhaps this isn't very strange, though. If I study harder, I must goof off a preportionate amount, right? ... Right?
Also, it'd be kinda lame to be named Oberto. Everyone would keep saying "Oh boy!" to you all the time. Just throwing that out there.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
Here I have laid out a few of the basic facts about them.
Pirates: Are pluralized with an S, just like most nouns.
Ninja: Can be pluralized with either an S or be simply staying the same.
Edge: Ninja. And they get +5 awesome points as well.
Pirates: Have their own holiday, National Talk Like a Pirate Day.
Ninja: Keep their holiday private, yet invisibly written on everyone's calendar. No one knows when it is.
Edge: Tough to say. Holidays are better if you know about them, and funny accents are cool, so I say pirates win this one.
Pirates: Have their own language on Facebook. It's called "English (Pirate)" on the drop down menu.
Ninja: Have no Facebook recognition.
Edge: Pirates. Duh.
Pirates: Have Jack Sparrow.
Ninja: Have Naruto.
Edge: Pirates. And it's 'Captain' Jack Sparrow.
Pirates: Fight using a combination of skill, luck, and dirty tricks.
Ninja: Fight using highly honed reflexes, with skill bordering on magical.
Edge: Ninja. Both styles are very cool, though.
Pirates: Drink too much.
Ninja: Train too much.
Edge: Ninja. Drinking too much is kinda lame. Training too much is often lame, but can be cool.
As you can see from this, it's a bit of a tie. Ninja are virtually unstoppable, though, so in a direct fight I would say that the ninja would win. Unless it was a fight with Captain Jack.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
Saturday, November 14, 2009
My friend Evan, who the majority of my esteemed readers may already be familiar with, happens to be pretty awesome at music. And music... stuff. As you might have noticed from my use of the word "stuff", I'm not that highly educated in that particular field. But I am pretty good at making jokes, writing stories, and such creative endeavors.
Together, Evan and I made a song, with my part being composing the lyrics, and his part being writing the music, recording it, and editing it. I sent it in to a website, the FuMP (Funny Music Project), where it was published.
It didn't get any comments. I was kinda hoping for some, even if they were just complaining about it. I think that we can do even better then that song, which ended up being more of a satirical punk rock song than a funny one. I've written several more songs, and I'm waiting on Evan to make them, but he has a lot of schoolwork to worry about at the moment, so we're biding our time.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
I found the video highly amusing, but if you're unfamiliar with either Lovecraft or Fiddler, you might not. It's elitist that way.
Also, I need to figure out how to embed youtube vids in my blog... Some other time.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
|What you think|
Saturday, October 24, 2009
How the Magna Charta Was Really Signed
“Many greetings, King Arthur!” Prince John exclaimed merrily, raising his cup of mead in a toast to the neighboring kingdom’s ruler. “Welcome to my castle in Nottingham.”
“Very quaint, Prince,” King Arthur replied, “But what stopped you from arranging this meeting in one of your larger castles?”
Prince John adopted a saddened look, which went well with his scraggly goatee. “They remind me of my poor older brother, King Richard, who this very moment is fighting in the Crusades.” John switched to a noble, self-sacrificial look, which didn’t look quite as normal on him. “But I shall carry on his work despite the hardships of kingly duty. Speaking of which, will you join me in a small banquet before we begin the meeting?”
“Very well. My knights and I are somewhat hungry from our journey,” Arthur said as he took a seat and gestured to his knights to do the same.
As the knights sat down at the table, Sir Percivale whispered to Sir Galahad, “This table isn’t as circular as the one back home”. Sir Galahad voiced his agreement.
The food was served, and the banquet was in full swing when a row broke out towards the foot of the dining table. Several knights were complaining about a Jew being at the table, despite the fact that he was as far away from everyone else as he could get. With the King of Camelot’s help, peace was grudgingly restored.
“Prey tell me how yonder Jew came to be traveling with you?” Prince John asked King Arther.
“We picked him up on our way here,” King Arthur told him between droughts of malt beer, “He’s traveling from Venice, where, he told us, he’s business was ruined and he was stripped of his fortune in court. Something about a pound of flesh, I believe.”
Prince John was in a good mood and raised his goblet in a toast.
“To the merchant of Venice!” he cried. Then, he continued his conversation with King Arthur about the vital importance of taxes in the economy. One of Prince John’s cohorts, a Knight of the Templar, whispered to another Knight, gesturing in the direction of the Jew.
Meanwhile, several other knights struck up a conversation with a pilgrim who was on a journey. He was received better then the Jew, as he was a Christian. In fact, Prince John once again raised his goblet.
“To this pilgrim’s progress!” he cried, and was once again heartily joined in a toast.
As the banquet continued, the beer flowed freer and a bit more cheaply. Finally, Prince John opted to finish the food and begin the land bartering that King Arthur had come for. But then, the king suggested that they watch the jester do his tumbling tricks one last time. Prince John was about to agree when he got a closer look at the jester, who was repeatedly bowing his head down until his three- forked hat brushed the ground.
“Do I… know you?” he asked, squinting suspiciously at the entertainer. Then, as the jester straightened and winked at him, “Robin Hood!”
The jester pulled off his hat and raised his scepter in the air. “Merry Men of Lincoln Green, attack!” he yelled.
Instantly, all the entertainers rose as one and brandished their swords. The bard, who was dressed all in scarlet, called to a burly performer, “Little John, guard the prince!”
But Prince John didn’t flinch when Little John held a sword to his throat. He just smiled and said, “I was expecting this. That’s why I had my friends, the Knights of the Templar, bring reinforcements.”
At that signal, many more Knights ran out from various passages. At the front was the Sheriff of Nottingham, yelling and waving his broadsword.
All the Knights of the Templar drew their own swords and began attacking the Merry Men. The sounds of clashing metal filled the large hallway. Prince John looked on, popping grapes into his mouth one by one as he did so. King Arthur and his own knights watched as well.
The fight wasn’t going very well for Robin Hood and his men. Robin himself was fighting two of the leaders of the Knights of the Templar. He was slowly being pushed back. He called to another man fighting near him, “Ivanhoe! Give me a hand here, wilt thou?”
The stout lad joined him in his fight, but the Knights of the Templar were still winning the battle. Prince John remarked to King Arthur, “Well, well. This is better then I thought. We can catch that scoundrel Robin Hood at last.”
“Scoundrel, is he?” Arthur stated mildly, “I’ve heard a bit differently. In fact, that’s why, when he met me on the way here and proposed that I help him on a little take-over plan of his, I agreed.”
“What?” said Prince John.
At that, King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table rose up and drew their own swords, joining the combat on the side of Robin’s men. Sir Kay and Sir Gawaine joined Robin and Ivanhoe in their fight, and soon had the Knights of the Templar on the defense.
Their spirits raised, the other Merry Men redoubled their attack. One, a friar, drubbed three Knights of the Templar with one swing of his quarterstaff. Sir Lancelot easily countered all of Nottingham’s Sheriff’s blows. Even Prince John was forced into action, fighting with Little John. But as the swords rang, the fight slowly shifted towards Robin and Arthur’s side. Finally, Prince John’s sword was knocked from his hand, and he cried, “You haven’t won yet! I thought this might happen. I have backup!” He pointed to the entrance to the hall.
Through it stepped a figure. King Arthur gasped as he saw it. “Morgan le Fay!”
Morgan le Fay grinned at him, then raised her hands. Blasts of green magic shot from them, incinerating all she managed to hit. Luckily, she was a bad shot, and she hit almost as many of the Templar Knights as she did Merry Men or Knights of the Round Table. One of Prince John’s men, named Yorick, was hit and disappeared instantly, leaving only a smoldering skull in his place, and prompting Robin Hood himself to say, “Alas, poor man!”
But the carnage soon ended when Sir Bedivere had the presence of mind to shove a mirror into the path of the magic, making it reflect back onto Morgan. This knocked her unconscious while avoiding the nasty business of harming a lady. The other knights were immensely relived at this.
But now the fight had been evened. It was hard to tell who would win now. But then, yet another person showed up. The sight of this one stopped the fighting entirely. Everyone stopped to turn to him.
“What’s all this?” said King Richard, walking into the hall. He surveyed the scene. Knights of both the Templar and the Round Table stood together with Merry Men. Wisps of magical smoke drifted around them. Then Robin Hood stepped forward, pulling a parchment out from his breeches.
“We came to get Prince John to sign this,” he explained, “And there was a little dispute. We’ve got it settled now, though.” He walked up to Prince John, who was sitting under the blades of several Merry Men, and said, “Just sign right here.”
“What is it?” Prince John asked as he signed.
“A little something we call the Magna Charta.” Robin answered.
Meanwhile, King Richard had spotted King Arthur and greeted his old friend. They talked together, and soon Richard was filled in on the whole story. “It’s too bad Gwenivere isn’t here,” he said.
“Oh, don’t worry about her," Arthur answered, "She’s staying at Joyous Gard with a new friend of hers named Joan of Arc.”
Then, as Robin returned, satisfied with the Magna Charta, and all the others began to clean up their mess, King Arthur added, “Well, we will have to be on our way soon. We’re heading over to Canterbury. Some pilgrims from there told me a tale of a fierce man by the name of Beowulf. He might be able to help me sort out some problems my friend Saint George has been having with a dragon. I hear he has experience in that field.”
Friday, October 23, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
wikiHow - The How to Manual That You Can Edit
The worm is an excellent dance for various occasions. It's great for showing off when people are dancing. Its great for looking like an idiot (in a respectable way). Use the worm at your discretion.
- Learn that the worm is really just a two step process combining two motions
- Put your arms on the floor like you're ready to do a push up. Find a comfortable stance for pushing yourself off the floor really quickly.
- Understand that while on the ground, you should lie on your stomach, hands in a push up stance. Now kick your legs up and right before your legs would come to the ground do that push up. This will send that wave-like motion through your body. Get the rhythm down and practice getting more of your body off the ground with the kick. Once you've done this comes the next stage of your worm development.
- Take your arms and hold them up like you're making a field goal. Now get on the floor on your belly and do that. So you're lying down on your belly with your elbows bent, arms in front of you so your hands should be at about your shoulders.
- Lift up your upper torso. You're using your lower back for this. At this point you're on your stomach on the floor with your chest and head slightly off the ground. Now, from this position you repeat steps 2 and 3 and wow! Your a worm!
- Consider doing all the above while being inside a sleeping bag. The sleeping bag will hide your human features, and you will look more like a worm.
- Remember that this is not an easy move. It requires lots of practice.
WarningsDo not do the worm:
- Immediately after eating
- In boxers (Men only)
- If Pregnant
- If you have heart or lung condition
- How to Dirty Dance
- How to Spot in Dance
- How to Find Your Own Dancing Style
- How to Do the Dancing Hair Trick
- How to Kiss a Girl While Dancing
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
There was once a rabbit made entirely out of Velveeta, and in the beginning, he seemed really splendid. He was advertised on television as 'melting better than Cheddar,' and he could be served atop any number of wonderful foods, such as broccoli, mashed potatoes, and ham. He had been carved out of a solid slab of Velveeta cheese, fresh out of its foil wrapper and oblong paper box. On Thanksgiving morning, when he sat wedged in the refrigerator, between the leftover meatloaf and the salad dressing, the effect was appetizing.
There were other things in the refrigerator: nuts and oranges and a bit of very old Kool-Aid, and lettuce and spam, and a few things which no one had been able to identify for several months, but the Rabbit was quite the best of all. For at least forty-five seconds the Boy stared at him hungrily, but then Aunts and Uncles came to dinner, and there was a great chopping and dicing of onions and garlic, and in the ensuing panic that followed as the Boy's sinuses became inflamed, the Velveeta Rabbit was forgotten.
For a long time he lived in the refrigerator or on the kitchen counter, and no one thought very much about him. He was naturally mellow, and being only made of pasteurized processed cheese food, some of the more expensive foods quite snubbed him. The hors d'oeuvres were very superior, and looked down upon everyone else; they were full of fancy foods, such as caviar and little hot dogs rolled up in buns, and they pretended that they were tasty. The filet mignon, who had been carefully sliced from the choicest part of the cow, but had gone a little rancid from sitting in the refrigerator for too long, caught the tone from the other foods and never missed an opportunity of referring to his past life as a partial cow. The Rabbit could not claim to be a partial anything, for he didn't know that cheese was produced by cows, and he thought all cheeses were like himself, and were destined to be cut with a hot knife and served with a bit of ham on a Saltine. Even the tuna casserole, who was made out of various edible items, and should have had broader views, put on airs and pretended it was affiliated with something it called The Chicken of the Sea. Between them all the poor little Rabbit was made to feel himself very insignificant and commonplace, and the only person who was kind to him at all was the Cabernet Sauvignon.
The Cabernet Sauvignon had been in the kitchen longer than any of the others. He was so old that his label was starting to peel and showed the glass underneath, and most of the speckles in his cork had dulled to a uniform gray brown. He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of fancy foods arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by be forgotten about and grow strange green fuzz and begin to smell horrible, and he knew that they were only delicacies, and would never be truly enjoyed by anyone. For kitchen magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those foods that are aged and spirited and bubbly like the Cabernet Sauvignon understand all about it.
"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the hot water tap, before Dinah came to tidy the kitchen. "Does it mean costing eighty-three dollars an ounce and tasting nasty?"
"Real isn't how much you cost," said the Cabernet Sauvignon. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child waits to eat you for a long, long time, not just to eat, but to REALLY savor you, then you become Real."
"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.
"Sometimes," said the Cabernet Sauvignon, for he was always well-tempered. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."
"Does it happen all at once, like being popped into the microwave," he asked, "or bit by bit, like being broiled?"
"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Cabernet Sauvignon. "Microwaves NEVER cook anything that tastes real. Good food takes a long time. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your coloring has changed, most of your flavoring has been replaced with herbs and spices, and you have silly little bits of parsley on your head. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be unappetizing, except to people who prefer fast food."
"I suppose you are Real?" said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Cabernet Sauvignon a little transparent. But the Cabernet Sauvignon only smiled.
"The Boy's parents made me Real," he said. "That was a great many years ago, when they still babbled in affectionate puppy love to each other, but once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always."
The Rabbit sighed. He thought it would be a long time before this magic called Real happened to him. He longed to know what it felt like; and yet the idea of growing dry and crusty and congealing on the bottom was rather sad. He wished that he could become it without these uncomfortable things happening to him.
There was a person called Dinah who ruled the kitchen. Sometimes she took no notice of the edibles lying about, and sometimes, for no reason whatever, she went swooping about like a great wind and hustled them away in cupboards. She called this "tidying up," and the foods all hated it, especially the overripe ones. The Rabbit didn't mind it so much, for wherever he was thrown, he rebounded.
One evening, when the Boy was going to bed, he couldn't find the cookies that he always ate with his milk. Dinah was in a hurry, and it was too much trouble to hunt for cookies at bedtime, so she simply looked about her, and seeing that the cupboard door stood open, she made a swoop.
"Here," she said, "take your old Bunny! He'll go well with milk!" And she dragged the rabbit out by one foot, and put him on the Boy's placemat.
That night, and for many nights after, the Velveeta Rabbit sat on the Boy's placemat. At first he was nervous about being eaten, but the Boy couldn't seem to bring himself to eat such an endearing piece of culinary art, and would just stare and run his fingers over the Rabbit's ears as he sipped his milk. Soon the rabbit grew to like it, for the Boy's gentle stroking felt very pleasant, and the Boy would pretend to give him sips of milk, and hop him around the placemat.
And so time went on, and the little Rabbit was very happy-so happy he never noticed how his beautiful Velveeta ears were getting stubbier and stubbier from stroking, and his feet were getting blunt, and there was a rancid smell coming from his chin where the Boy had dribbled milk on him.
Another week came, and the Boy began taking the Rabbit to school in his lunch box. At lunch time he would take the Rabbit out and stare at it, despite the jeers of his friends, who thought that a Boy who played with a bit of artificial cheese must be looney.
And once, when the Boy went back to his house, the Rabbit was left in the cold locker long after dusk, and Dinah had to come and look for him because the Boy couldn't go to sleep without drinking milk and playing with his bunny. He was covered in eraser rubbings and dust, and Dinah grumbled as she covered him in Saran Wrap and put him into the refrigerator.
"You must have your old Bunny!" she said. "Fancy all that fuss for a bit of pasteurized processed cheese food!"
The Boy sat up in bed and stretched out his hands.
"Give me my Bunny!" he said. "You mustn't say that. He's not imitation. He's REAL cheese!"
When the little Rabbit heard that, he was happy, for he knew that what the Cabernet Sauvignon had said was true at last. The kitchen magic had happened to him, and he was a commercial by-product no longer. He was real cheese. The Boy himself had said it.
That night he was almost too happy to sleep, and so much love stirred in his little dairy heart that it almost curdled. And into his orangish skin, that had gone hard and dry, there came a whitish tone, and an aged smell, so that even Dinah noticed it the next morning when she picked him up, and said, "I declare if that old Velveeta hasn't got quite a well-aged scent to it!"
That was a wonderful weekend!
Near the house where they lived was a shopping center, and in the late afternoon the Boy liked to go there to find quarters for the gum machines. One day he took the Velveeta Rabbit with him, and they wandered through the shopping mall, looking at toys and candies and all sorts of other things which spoiled Boys like. One afternoon, as they entered an old wooden shop, the Rabbit saw two strange beings staring at him.
They were cheeses, like himself, but with red wax coatings and tied in lovely string packages. They must have been well made, for they didn't get melty at all, and they were bunched together in round, solid, delicious-smelling wheels. The rabbit stared hard to see where the bits of tin foil had stuck to their skin rather than peeling off properly. But he couldn't see it. They were evidently a new kind of cheese altogether.
They stared at him, and the little Rabbit stared back. And all the time they smelled scrumptious.
"Why don't you get yourself served with a dry dinner wine?" one of them asked.
"I don't feel like it," said the Rabbit, for he didn't want to explain that the general consensus was that cheese previously covered in tin foil was not appropriate for serving with a dry dinner wine.
"Ho!" said the waxy cheese. "It's as tasty as anything." And he indicated a large poster showing a handsome platter of Ementhal Swiss served with Rosemary baguettes and Chardonnay. "I don't believe you can!"
"I can!" said the little Rabbit. "I can be served with anything!" He meant when the little boy ate and stared at him, but of course he didn't want to say so.
"Can you complement a good rye?" asked the waxy cheese.
That was a dreadful question, for the Velveteen Rabbit had no idea what a rye was! The boy only ate Wonder Kids or Roman Meal bread in front of him. He said nothing, hoping that the other cheeses wouldn't notice.
"I don't want to!" he said again.
But the aged cheeses have very sharp flavors, especially the cheddar, and they had never met anyone scented like this before.
"He hasn't got any aging!" one called out. "Fancy a fine cheese without any aging!" And he began to laugh.
"I have!" cried the little Rabbit. "I have got aging! I just have a muted coating!"
"Then prove it," said the fine cheese, and it got up on its end and rolled over toward the Rabbit. Suddenly it stopped and fell over on its side.
"He doesn't smell right!" he exclaimed. "He isn't a real cheese at all! He isn't real!"
"I am Real!" said the little Rabbit. "I am Real! The Boy said so!" And he nearly began to weep oils.
Just then the Boy came back, and picked up the little Rabbit, carrying him out the door.
"Please believe me!" called the little Rabbit. "Oh, do believe me! I know I am Real!"
But the Boy kept on, and the cheeses laughed inside their expensive shop.
"Oh, dear," thought the Rabbit. "Why did they not believe me? The Boy said I was Real."
For a long time that evening, he lay in the refrigerator, watching the Jello set, and thinking about what the cheeses had said.
Days passed, and the little Rabbit grew very old and smelly, but the Boy loved him just as much. He loved him so hard that his fingers permanently squeezed imprints in the Rabbit's shape, and his color began to turn green, and his ears broke off and were gobbled up by the dog. Soon the boy had squeezed him into a ball-like blob, and he scarcely looked like a rabbit any more, except to the Boy. To him he was always scrumptious, and that was all the Rabbit cared about. He didn't mind how he smelled to other people, because the kitchen magic had made him Real, and when you are Real rottenness doesn't matter.
And then the Boy went crazy.
He babbled incoherently, banged his head on walls, and ran up and down the street screaming, "I'm a chicken, I'm a chicken!" It was a long, weary time, for the Boy was too weird to eat properly, and he began devouring bizarre foods, such as marbles and coins and mayonnaise and Spam and Chef Boyardee. The Rabbit found it disconcerting to watch all these alien objects pass down the Boy's gullet, but he sat droopily in the refrigerator, and looked forward to the time when the Boy would be well again, and they would go out to the shopping center like they used to. Presently, the Boy's sanity returned, and the Boy got better. He was able to eat more edible foods, like Cream of Wheat, and peanut butter sandwiches.
One day the psychiatrist came into the house and began collecting items that he felt were a bad influence on the boy. Just then Dinah caught sight of the Rabbit.
"How about his old Bunny?" she asked.
"That?" said the psychiatrist. "Why, that's most likely the very source of the poor boy's problems!-throw it out at once. What? Nonsense! Feed him serious foods, like porridge. He mustn't be allowed to play with his food like that any more!"
And so the little Rabbit was put into a plastic bag with old corn husks and watermelon rinds and a lot of leftovers, and carried out to the end of the garden behind the playset. That was a fine place to make a compost pile, only the gardener was too busy trimming to use fertilizer right now.
That night the Boy had spaghetti, with garlic bread and chocolate pudding for desert. And while the Boy was eating, enjoying every bite, the little Rabbit lay with his head stuck partially into a rotten tomato, and he felt very lonely. He was feeling very hot and fluid, for he had always been used to sleeping in the refrigerator, and by this time his innards were quite green and liquid. Nearby he could see the thicket of bamboo, growing tall and close like a botanical prison. He thought of those long, cool hours on the Boy's placemat-how happy they were-and a great sadness came over him. He seemed to see all those hours pass before him, each more beautiful than the other, the cookie crumbs, the little milk dribbles, the chaotic, painful bouncing across the table. He thought of the Cabernet Sauvignon, so wise and spirited, and all that he had told him. Of what use was it to be loved and lose one's flavor and become Real if it all ended like this? And a wax tear, real wax, trickled down his little discolered Velveeta nose and fell to the ground.
And then a strange thing happened. For where the tear had fallen, a hoof poked out of the ground, a mysterious hoof, not like any of the dog's or cat's paws. It was attached to a leg covered with coarse brown hair, and was itself very hard and black. It was so bizarre that the little Rabbit forgot to cry, and just lay there watching it. And presently the hoof was followed by a huge mooing animal-a cow.
She was quite the loveliest cow in the whole world. Her horns were made of ivory, and there was a solid gold bell round her neck, and her moo was like heavenly music. And she came close to the little Rabbit and licked him up in her her tongue.
"Little Rabbit," she said, "don't you know who I am?"
The Rabbit looked up at her, and it seemed to him that he had seen her nose before, but he couldn't think where.
"I am the kitchen magic Cow," she said. "I take care of all the dairy products that the children have loved. Needless to say, this is the first job I've ever had. But I take them away and turn them Real."
"Wasn't I Real cheese before?" asked the little Rabbit.
"You were Real to the Boy," the Cow said, "and Real Disgusting to everyone else. But now you shall be Real Cheese to everyone."
And she slurped the Rabbit up in her tongue and swallowed him down.
The Rabbit spent many hours being spit up and rechewed, then shivering in strange agony as digestive juices finally managed to break him down, although they weren't happy about it, and told the Cow so with painful indigestion. Later the next morning, the Cow was milked, and the milk was taken and carefully processed into a delightfully tangy cheddar. The cheddar was coated in wax and taken to the cheese shop.
Once there the Rabbit sat quite still and never moved. For when he saw all those fine cheeses sitting about him he suddenly remembered about his peculiar odor, and he didn't want them to see that he contained artificial colors and flavors, as well as BHT to preserve freshness. He might have sat there a long time, too shy to speak, if just then he hadn't noticed a bottle of Chablis; and before he thought what he was doing, he complemented it.
And he found that he actually had flavor! Instead of a spongy consistency he had a waxy covering, red and unyielding, his odor was sharp and appealing, and his flavor was so yummy that his price sticker was well over six dollars! He was a Real Cheese at last, at home with the other cheeses.
Sunday passed, and Monday, and on Tuesday, when the Boy got out of school, he wandered over to the cheese shop. And while he was browsing, he noticed two cheeses sitting on the counter. One of them had an imprint on its wax; it was that of a small, shy, melting rabbit. And something about the odor to that cheese was so familiar that the Boy thought to himself: "Why that looks just like my old Bunny that was lost when I went bonkers!"
But he never knew that it really was his own Bunny, sitting on the counter and staring at the child who had first helped him to be Real.