The State of Moldova

July 29, 2010

…Inspiration, go away; come again another day so I can knock your block off…

Anyone who reads this little ditty of mine probably wants to join the ever growing number of people who want to kill me.

Chances are, you spend hours and hours just looking at a blank “Add New Post” screen. You are waiting for the Goddess of Inspiration to drift over you, enlightening you. …Giving you new ideas that will impress your vast collection of friends, and make the world a better place. But she never comes.

Well, she won’t leave me alone. I am constantly being slapped in the face by the hand of ‘Inspiration’. I am crossing the road, and am suddenly run over by the train of Inspiration’s long, heavy iron dress. I have so much inspiration that I have no inspiration. It all floods in, like a really big………..flood.

Why can’t Inspiration bother somebody else? Like the writer of this blog:

http://gpsnavigator99.wordpress.com/about/

—–

Today I slept in until 11:00. I got up and said “Good morning” to people, who immediately stated that it is the afternoon. I suspect that they felt very smart telling me that. Too bad it wasn’t true; the afternoon starts at 12:00. It was 11:49 when I came up the stairs. So, wallah-da-de-poo to them.

Want to hear a story? Great. No, you can’t sit on my lap.This is a true story, or based on one, anyways. Well, it’s more like a story that is based on a story that is based on a fiction that has things that can only happen in your imagination in it that is slightly based on a halfway true poem that doesn’t even rhyme.

I was once riding my bike to downtown, as I often do. As I was riding over the brick sidewalks of Waukegan, and it was quite pleasant. I was humming the tune to “I can see clearly now”, when out of nowhere a peasant appeared right in front of my bike. I crashed into him, and he yelled at me. “Do you know who I am?”, he said.

“No, but do you know who I am?”, I replied.

The man then clapped twice and six planes zoomed into view. They all had banners attached to them reading, “THIS MAN IS THE KING OF MOLDOVA.”

I looked at the banners, then turned back to the man. I was confused. “So you are the king of Moldova, and not a peasant?”, I asked.

“Indeed, and you have earned something from me that not very many of people do.”, he replied with a warm smile on his face.

“Really, now? What is that?”, I asked in suspension.

“The death penalty.”, he said. He was now scowling at me in satisfaction.

“But you don’t understand. Moldova is in Europe; I am not under your laws! Here in Waukegan, if you run over someone with a bike, they beat you up and shoot you in the leg. That’s just how it works over here. I’m sorry if I disappointed you..”, I explained.

“Well,” he said, now grinning maliciously. “That’s just why I’m here: Moldova is taking over your little town!”

“Well guess what?”, I said. I was grinning too, now.

“What?”, he asked in mockery.

“I win.”

“Oh, I never thought of it that way….”, he blabbered. “I will send the order…it’s back to Moldova for all of us, I guess.” He started to cry.

“Don’t cry,” I said. “Just hand the great thrown of Moldova over to me, and all will be well again.”

“Alright, if-if you say so…”, He whimpered.

I now own Moldova.

The End.

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