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All Epochs Must Pass

I’ve been locked into a Cubist epoch for the past seven days. At the outset, I was extremely prolific, producing two paintings over the course of two days. Since last Friday, however, I have been toiling away on what I have decided must be the last of my Cubist works.

A floccinaucinihilipilificator might suggest this piece belongs in a dumpster behind an orphanage.

But it doesn’t. It is pulchritudinous. And sublime. And very, very lumpy.

Here is my ‘Late Cubism’ masterpiece, entitled Self Portrait, or also, The Bulge.

cubism3

Self Portrait, or, The Bulge, by Michael Cedarwood. (2015) Microsoft Paint

 

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I Played Star Wars Monopoly As An Anarcho-Communist—And Won

The setting: a wooden kitchen table.

The game: Star Wars Monopoly.

The players: Two greedy cappies (pejorative form of capitalist), and me. I have not seen the Star Wars movies since I was about eight years old, so I can only describe the pieces we used:

One opponent played as an ugly fellow with a sword, the other as the robot that looks like a stumpy penis. My figure was wearing a jacket reminiscent of Dr. Evil’s garb.

I went into the game with a strategy—buy little to no property. My first opportunity to purchase a tract of land was some sort of platform in the Cloud City. Even if I hadn’t been playing as a communist, this was a no-brainer. How safe does a city on clouds sound? Why not just build a home atop a pile of runny cow dung? I passed.

Peter Kropotkin

My next move landed me in the Ewok Village. Now that had a communal ring to it. I shelled out the samolians, or in the case of this version of Monopoly, “credits.” I like to tell myself even Peter Kropotkin would have been okay with that one.

I landed in jail at least six times over the course of the game, leading me to realize my character was some sort of free-thinking anarchist. Though frustrating at first, I eventually realized all that time in the clink worked to my advantage. While in jail, I sat idly and avoided rent charges, while the other two players slugged it out betwixt themselves. Numerous times after being freed from prison, I went right ahead and landed on the “Free Parking” space, the treasury of which was very fat every time, due to penalties and taxes paid by the unincarcerated.

Sometime during all this, I landed on a property adjacent to the Ewok Village, The Forest, which I purchased simply to provide a buffer zone for the community and also prevent the razing of the trees for a galactic equivalent of Walmart to be built.

The next swing around, I found myself in the Throne Room of the Death Star. I picked that one up, and, unknown to the other players, filled it with an unshaven mass of jobless vagrants, in order to give it a sort of “Occupy Wall Street” vibe. The surrounding properties subsequently went undeveloped.

As with nearly any game of Monopoly, an impasse was reached. I, with three properties, accepted an offer for the trinity-completing neighbor of the Ewok Village and The Forest, in exchange for the Throne Room.

I took all the money I had amassed and spread it among the people, promptly erecting four communes on each piece of land. We decided to gladly accept rent from any wayfaring capitalist that came our way, and invest the money in useful things, like hammers and sickles. The other two players, by following the law and not spending most of the game in jail, owned plenty of property, but could only afford sparse development.

Within three turns, both capitalists were bankrupt, with one of them desperately trying to sell me something called “The Moisture Farm” in an embarrassing effort to restore some semblance of wealth.

So there you have it: indestructible proof that communism and anarchy work.

 

Well, I’ve Been Screwed Again

Many years ago, while enrolled in a prestigious technical college, I concocted a brew during my downtime between classes.

The Brew:

Part cappuccino, part energy drink. Named it ‘Enerchino.’ Tasted like liquid garbage, due to the experimental environment it was mixed in. Corporate funding, i.e. that of your Monster, Red Bull, etc., could have improved test versions. So I sent the recipe to a patent company. Never heard back.

Now, next time you’re in a gas station, take a stroll back to the beverage aisle, and a myriad of java-energy fusion drinks you will find. These conveniently achieved popularity about a year after I submitted my idea to that patent company.

There went my first million.

More recently, this past summer, I tried a new avenue of life-improving technology. You see, while still enrolled at the prestigious technical university mentioned above, I overheard fellow students discussing a mechanism called a ‘doob tube.’ It was simple: stuff an old toilet paper roll full of dryer sheets, then when marijuana drug smoke is blown through it, the scent is masked.

The New Invention:

Using dryer sheets and my own underpants, I attempted to create a garment that would cloak the aroma of flatulence, utilizing the same concept as the doob tube. It was impossible to fail. The one-person test group informed me that the odor of my wind was still very much noticeable. A request for the sheets to be sewn directly into the boxer shorts was denied, and the project was shelved. I knew I was on to something though.

A real picture from the Shreddies website.

A few weeks or days or months later, I see somebody post this on Facebook. That’s a link to a product called Shreddies. Shreddies. What kind of name is that. Guess what their product does. They make underwear that filters flatulence.

There goes another million.

So now, back at the drawing board, I sit here drinking a nearly undrinkable beverage that I just made, called CoffTea. It’s coffee and tea mixed together, and it’s revolting.

The Polar Vortex Will Turn My Nephew Into A 35-Year-Old First Grader

As the polar vortex returns to Minnesota, schools are again shutting down for the chill. In order to make kids less dumb, those days have to be made up somewhere, generally at the end of the academic year. However, if we look to Newtonian thought, we can expect trouble in June as well, for the third law of motion tells us that “Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.”

Come summer, we can expect the complete opposite of the polar vortex—a sort of tropical steamer, as it were. When the time comes to make up the days being missed now, it will simply be too hot for the youth to go to school. By the time the heat blast gives way, it will be well past the solstice.

Why not make up the days then, you may be pondering. I come from a lineage of educators, most notably my Mother. Now, there are three things that teachers love about the job—winter break, spring break, and summer break. Especially summer break. If teachers are expected to continue working into July, we can expect nothing less than chaos.

For instance, every June, it is tradition for my Mother to peel out of the school parking lot, stop at the liquor store, then disappear down into the utility shed until Labor Day. As far as I know, she isn’t even aware of the existence of the time we call ‘July,’ and August lives in her brain as a sort of hypnopompic hallucination, with the opening of September being the first solid grasp of reality after a three month soak in rum and Pepsi.

So now the make-up days have been pushed into what would be the new school year. Mass confusion can be expected here, as many of the students won’t realize that they are still in the grade from the previous year for the first week or so of the new year. By the time all that gets smoothed out, we’re looking at the September holidays—Talk Like A Pirate Day, Mexican Independence Day, Rosh Hashanah, Oktoberfest. Then October harvest arrives, when all the children head to the fields to shuck corn and shave animals. In November, it will be deemed too ‘nice’ out for the kids to be cooped up in school, due to the looming polar vortex of next winter. Throw in all the cancelled days for that, and we’re basically up to January 23rd of 2015, when the whole cycle repeats and repeats and repeats and repeats.

The Philosophunculist Has A Facebook Page Now

We here at The Philosophunculist have always been on the way to selling out. But in order to sell out, you need a buyer. To find a buyer, you need, well, I’m not sure, which is why no one seems to be purchasing what I’m pushing. I blame the economy, mostly, but also teenagers, immigrants, people on welfare, liberals, conservatives, and Canada.

Anyways, back to selling out. I stated, ages ago, on this very Blog, that it was my intent to one day become an eccentric billionaire, or at the very least, a weird millionaire. The warnings have been there. So here it is. This Blog now has a Facebook page.

Picture it as the tiny snowball perched on the top of a hill, ready to be pushed down, sopping up and absorbing everything in its widening swath. At the bottom of the hill, my own clothing line, corporate endorsements, reality television, rehab, indoor sunglasses, and straight cash homey.

Here’s the link. ‘Like’ it. That’s it. You don’t even have to look at it after that.

This is the link to the official Philosophunculist Facebook Page.

Here’s What I Think Of The Royal Baby

How To Get Rid Of A Farmer’s Tan

I was naked the other day and realized I’ve got a wicked farmer’s tan goin’ on. Today, I am concocting an outfit to allow the whiter areas of my body to catch up with the more leathery. Here is how:

-I will get a turtleneck and cut the neck off of it. Then I’ll cut the arms off just above the elbows. The extracted pieces will be worn on my neck and arms to stop them from getting any darker.

-Acquire some tighty whities to cover my buttocks and genitalia. I can’t risk exposing them to sunlight, too much is at stake.

-Get a pair of pants. Any old kind will do. This will be the same as the turtleneck trick. Cut them off just above the knees, and wear the bottom part to cover the lower portion of my legs, allowing my creamy thighs to attain a deep, lustrous tan. My feet will also be left exposed in order to even out the sock line.

-Go outside, and let el sol take care of the rest.

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