The Saga of John the Cartographer

John is off being the world's most famous cartographer somewhere in the deep and mysterious hills of North Carolina. He's currently mapping out previously undiscovered, highly populated and industrialized cities and towns! Can you believe it?! Our John! I just hope he is careful amongst these strange and highly civilized people. Who knows what they will do to him.

Here is my worst case scenario of what could happen to John while he's off doing service to generations and beyond with his cartography:

As always, John approaches the city with extreme caution, eying the local inhabitants to ascertain their customs and potential for danger. He sees that several of the inhabitants of this particular village are going into a building with a green symbol on it. Strangely enough, John recognizes the symbol! It says, "Starbucks." With a deeply drawn breathe, John enters the village doing his best to imitate their upright walking technique and chatter. As John gets closer to these people, he realizes their chatter is actually language! Furthermore, it is the language that John speaks! English!

Amazed and overjoyed, John realizes his infiltration into this society will be easier. However, he also realizes that this highly civilized society, no matter how akin to his own, is still a major threat. He walks to the building that he sees so many people coming in and out of, hearing pieces of people's conversations: "So did you get her number?" "Let's hit that thing then go out on the trails man!" "Quarter rutabaga and sugar pie honey bunch." That last one John didn't entirely understand, but from the rest he knew he must be on his toes. These were vile, ugly, highly specialized and developed creatures, capable any atrocity known to mankind.

Shooting a furtive glance over his shoulder, John takes a deep breathe and plunges through the doors of the "Starbucks" and finds himself inside. He sees people sitting around drinking and talking; drinking goats blood no doubt and speaking of murder and conspiracy. "I must blend in," John thinks to himself and approaches a table of young adults. "'Bout time for some of that lambs blood, huh?" John asks with a painful grin, desecrating his poor soul to its very core. Oh the inhumanity of these monsters John's conscience decries! May they rot in hell!

"The best part of waking up is MURDER!" John yells in an attempt begin a conversation. The young adults just gaze dumbly on him. "Well.... well, it's nice to meet you," one of them meekly offers. "Nice to meet you too" John replies, "so where can I get some of that warm cherry juice?" A strong, young male offers to John, "Come with me, man, and I'll get you a cup of Joe."

"Cannibalism!" John thinks, his heart sinking to a chamber where even the most devout cannibal could not find it. "Poor, poor Joe," John thinks, but says, "Sure, let's do it." They approach the counter. John swears he can hear screaming in the backroom.

"Get this man a coffee," says the strong young male, obviously trying to impress his female counterparts in hopes of gross copulation and defilement in the near future. The attendant asks John, "Do you want any shots with that?" John's lips quiver: this might be more than he can handle. "No, no thanks, I have some dietary restrictions," he manages to mutter.

The barista says he understands and beings to work behind the counter. John can hear screaming and steam, he winces and attempts to shy away, but the strong young male is standing in his exit route. Raising his hand, the barista offers the sinister cup that could only be matched by the treachery of Mephistopheles. "I've got this one," says the strong young male, adding with a crooked grin, "Welcome to town."

John slowly puts his lips to the container; what other choice does he have now? He slowly takes in the liquid, attempting not to taste it, but it's flavors and scent are so pungent he cannot help but do so.

The cup, as if in slow motion, falls from John's hands, exploding on the floor. A white, viscous liquid spreads over the shins of John and the strong young male. John, losing strength, slowly lowers himself to the floor until he is laying on his side in the abominable liquid.

"ARE YOU ALRIGHT MAN?!" screams the strong young male. With his last gasp, John utters these words:

"...soy.....milk.....it was.... soy.... milk......."

Ode to John

John, O John,

You plague my dreams

with churlish machinations

and devilish schemes

.

John, O John

You are such a fright

when the sun goes down

I light a nightlight

.

John, O John

when will you learn?

To torture brings peace

only in the urn

.

John, O John

You ugly mutt

I'll piss in your closet

and punch your gut

.

-by The World

John and jerk start with the same letter...

John wanted me to inform you that I know the difference between the word "subtly" and "subtlety," which I do. I apologize for my one spelling error in our conversation, which I did not alter to keep things truthful. The mistake was made out of indignation and rage. I apologize to you, dear readers, since you were the cause of neither of these emotions.

A Recent Conversation with the Academic: John Post aka "lunchpack" Post

"lunchpack": dont be stupid

I'M with stupid!

me: went in dumb come out dumb too

"lunchpack": crumb bum

me: Hey, I'm John, I hate everything

Get outta my way old lady

you bitch

I'm walking here

I'm John

"lunchpack": Hey, I'm Owen, I'm willingly naive about everything

I sniff flowers for fun

Hurray what a romantic life we lead

Yay what a pretty day!

you bitch!

me: me?

"lunchpack": BLISSFUL!

the blissful bluffer

blubber butt

barneby

me: I'll slap you generations back, so your granpappy in the civil war feels it

"lunchpack": my granpappy was not in the civil war

you dolt

count!

learn how to count

me: generations

do I have to say

great great great great

or can't that be implied by generations

"lunchpack": i was in the civil war

me: learn some subtly

"lunchpack": che guevara died in bolivia

he was in the angolan civil war

me: I'll send you home on bloody stumps

"lunchpack": stumbles

me: Why don't I just get married and have a child already?

That would make things far more certain.

"lunchpack": i dont know, why not

the world is a nasty place

me: Maybe I'll just have multiple kids and make my life goal skirting child support

"lunchpack": haha

thats what wilt chamberlain did

if its good enough for wilt the stilt, its good enough for me

BAHAHA

"lunchpack"'s new status message - 1,000 kids and skirting child support: if its good enough for Wilt the Stilt, its good enough for me! 1:27 PM

me: haha okay fine

"lunchpack": he scored a 100 points

but he had more children than that!

http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20060616100358AAImTYl

Weep

John has left me to bask in laziness and the sun.

He's going to grad school and quit work.

Now he's bumming until August, and I am alone...

Eternally.

Jorn Poast

Officially the least productive worker in the seven continents of the Earth.

The Origin of John

It was a century and a half ago that John Post was first found. Some miners were digging deep in the hills of Ireland, when they came across a remarkable specimen. As they chipped away by lamplight, when one of them thought they saw an iron finger be pulled back into the Earth. One said to the others, "Let's leave Aaron, let's leave," but Aaron said, "Did ye see the ring on that finger?" and they dug and dug. Chinking away at the earthen rock, the began uncovering the silver form of a body.

They worked past their quitting time, for in the dark of a mine time has no real measure. They had unearthed nearly all the body, excepting the head, when Aaron took up his pick ax to do so, "we'll make a pretty penny, yes we will." His pick ax rang down once upon the head of that earthen being when a grumbling came deep from within. "WHERE IS THE NEAREST TACO BELL?!!" the voice demanded.

The two miners were struck silent with temerity. The rocks around the earthen beings head started cracking and falling away, revealing a face of pure iron, with eyes of coal. "I said, WHERE IS THE NEAREST TACO BELL?!!!!" At the thundering of this voice, the cavern started collapsing in on the two miners. Two days later, the two miners were pulled up from the rubble, but a third empty hollow was found around what looked like space for a body. No one heard from this Iron Man again for half a century.

Half a century later in Westchester, reprobates genially termed "rapscallions" were out in the street up to smarts and dashes when they saw the most unusually cut figure headed their way. As the figure came clearer and clearer they noticed a strange tint to this man's complexion. They asked, "Sir, could you spare us a dime? We'd like a lot to eat tonight..."

The figure asked gently, "Could you please direct me to the nearest Taco Bell?" The boys looked at him frightfully, "Sir, we don't know what you're talkin' about." The figure frowned, "I have been asleep for thousands of years, and all I want is a damn beef taco... I have the right mind to..." and the figure raised his heavy fist high into the air. One of the boys whimpered and said, "Sir, sir, please, that's me young brother, take this crust of bread, for your hunger is stronger than we." The enormous figure looked at his fist in the air, and then down to the rapscallions, and gently dropped his fist to his sides. And the figure spake, "My name is John Post."

Not much has been known about the man made of iron since then. There are many tales of his story. Some say he wanders the Earth going to Taco Bells, delighted in the fact that they opened in his seemingly limitless lifetime. Others say that he burrowed deep in the ground again to wait for the grand opening of Taco Bell, but overslept and will show his fury to humanity for his own oversight.

Still, others say, and any wise historian would be apt to believe this tale, that John, once he felt sympathy for the rapscallions, rebuilt himself into a human form. He cast skin over his body of Iron to feel what humans feel. These feelings are superficial, and John still has a coutenance made of Iron, with a weakness for Beef Tacos, but he is trying to assimilate and understand human beings, for he has seen true compassion and fear....

This much can be certain: The man of iron, John Post, wanders this Earth looking for Taco Bells with which to satisfy his limitless hunger.

John Says,

WAH WAH WAH... Update my website. I don't know if I truly exist or not without my cyber-form.....

Well John,
HERE!

John Cheated At Chess and Beat Me

End of Story.

My Prophesy of John's Future...

I'm a rich venture capitalist. I like to get drunk and play rock band in my underwear, and when my wife comes home I pretend I'm masturbating so she doesn't bother me.

Spy v. Spy

me:
Frumpus Grumpus fell out of bed,

he broke his fall with his mean old head,
Frumpus Grumpus talks to others at times,
when he speaks, he degrades them and belittles them, telling them to shove off causing people to cry in their office with everyone watching.

john:
Suckus McStumpus had a stump for a brain

every time he rode the train

to work each day, people laughed the entire way

me:

Frumpus Grumpus was only twenty four,
He thought he yearned for the days of yore,
When his head was covered with hair and locks
Now it's bald and bare as a rock

john:

Stupid Suckus McStumpus wore a tallywacker around his neck

when he played his guitar people hit the deck

and every time he said a word

people just thought they heard

"chirp chirp" from a bird

me:
Frumpus Grumpus went back to school,
Frumpus Grumpus was publicly made the fool,
Frumpus Grumpus cried and cried,
When the fraternity boys tinkled in his pie.

john:
Suckus McStumpus left town so quickly last year

people thought he was so full of fear

F

F
F

F

F

F

you

me:
Frumpus Grumpus lay in bed with a girl
Frumpus Grumpus thought he'd give her a whirl,
Frumpus Grumpus then wet his pants,
While the sweet young lass away did prance.

john:
Suckus McStumpus had no more friends,
for he was horrible to them to no ends
Suckus McStumpus was a bastard in disguise;
when he went to speak, he only told lies

SHAZAM

The Time is Now

Well, John has been complaining to me that I have failed to keep up on the saga of his life, and I keep telling him "I'll get around to it," when in fact I was postponing for a reason. See, I was waiting for John to leave. And finally, John has left.

Now, he has not vanished from the Earth or anything, but he did go to the beach with some friends for a week long soiree of drinking, smacking each other asses, combining it all with homophobic jokes to bolster their heterosexual ambitions.

Now that John is gone, let's all have a party in his bedroom. After we have our party, we'll move all of his furniture into the basement and leave child's sized furniture there instead. This way, when John comes home we can call him John the Giant and after much insistence, and the trickery of children sized furniture, John may actually begin to believe he became a giant while at the beach. My hope is that he will try to climb a skyscraper in a fit of rage, and we can some good footage of him trembling while looking down from ten feet or so....

Frenetic, Fantastic, & Idiotic

27-O-Daddio John is trying to tell me how to run my blog... I'm going to run his eight wives.

John Post XXVII

John just informed me of his intention to have twenty seven kids. Yes. 27 kids. That's a lot of children for anyone, but believe me, if anyone can do it, it's John Post. So, get in line ladies, he's waiting....

Clarification

To clarify, John's John is his unspoken truth. It's what we all love about John, right?

John's John

John has been a little down in the dumps lately. He's worried about things, and he doesn't think this website accurately portrays him, but I only take sentiments from our conversations and put them here. Anyway, I am proposing that the entire world yell "We Love You John!" at 9 pm this Saturday night. I am sure this will happen because I know the entire world reads this blog. So, what'd'ya say? Let's tell John we love him.

God, are you listening?

John likes to look up stupid rumors at work, God, I just thought I'd let you know, since I'm sure you read this blog, and every other blog in the world.

Rapture Denied.

John was at work the other day, just sitting at his desk minding his business when something extraordinary happened. A voice from high, but low in pitch, came ringing down at John, "John, if you don't quit making trivial jokes about me, I will do more than smite you, I will personally kick your rump into a tree stump." Now, John looked around, but none of his coworkers seemed to notice this voice. John whispered, "I'm sorry, who is this?" The voice said, "You damn well know who I am." John looked around again, people were working, sleeping, picking their noses, but no one seemed to hear or mind the rich, sonorous voice coming from high.

Now, as one can imagine, John was becoming a little frightened. He thought to himself, "I'll take an early lunch, maybe I need fresh air." Looking around sheepishly, John picked himself slowly out of the chair. He brushed his hands off on his pants and let out a little sigh, "this is it. I just need a break." Suddenly! From above an enormous porcelain white hand came down, thrusting John back into his chair; the voice boomed, "John!" The hand curled into a fist before John, and John cowered back into his chair covering his eyes. When he gained the courage to peek, the hand was before him, extending one enormous middle finger in his direction. The hand then relaxed, patted John softly on the head, and went back heavenward, as the voice spoke softly, "You didn't need a rest, John, you needed to stop pissing me off. Now, get back to work."

John got back to work, never again to blaspheme any entity or being... for now....

Put Your Finger In My Sandwich

It has recently come to my attention that John is anatomically different from most people. With what he calls "chicky fingers," he lives among the rest of us with natural fingers of flesh, bone, muscle, sinew, and tendons. Now, I can only assume that these "chicky fingers" operate in a similar manner to regular fingers, with opposable thumbs and all, but I also wonder what evolutionary purpose has caused this strange, dare I say disfigurement, of John's fingers.

The most logical cause, submitted by a team of esteemed scientists, is a conspiracy on the part of napkin manufacturers. John is in constant need of napkins because his fingers are always greasy. Have you ever seen how many napkins he keeps in his closet? There are many, many, perhaps several hundred, packages of napkins in there. I've contacted numerous celebrity personalities since John came clean about his anatomical anomality in hopes that one would be so generous as to form a foundation: "Napkins for John."

While all this may seem pretty dismal, John has kept an upbeat attitude. He says if he ever gets hungry, he can always eat a finger. But bear in mind, John, so can we. Forks! Knives! Bibs! and Dinner at John's!

The Whie House Journal: Porn or Literature?

Big news today everyone, John is creating a magazine called "The White House Journal," which was formerly called "The Diapason." Now, you may be expecting this to be some sort of political journal where John can find a good resting place for his mustachio-flakes from shaving, but in fact it is a literary journal, and if I judge correctly, it will be a good one.

Now, John and I may have had our differences in the past, but boy! that guy can write a poem. For those of you who are uninterested in literary works, I am currently suggesting that he counterbalance the journal by having literature and porn on opposing pages. Then, we'll have an official vote to see which wins by popular demand. I know that John will be adamantly against this for reasons of "principle," "dignity," and other made up literary devices, but I say we rally and get us some good literary porn. I may be way off on my conception of what the public wants, but hey, that's why we're having an official vote.

Who thinks John should regrow a mustache, but with more gusto this time?

I do. He only gave it three or four days last time. Now he's saying I "unsulted" him which is possibly a compliment.

A Warning

John is threatening to kill me. If I go missing in the nearby future, be sure to check in on John. He may have blood on his sheets or my carcass in his closet or something weird like that.

John has a problem...

John is saying that his feet are beginning to smell. Does anyone have a remedy for this? He thought he'd try Fiber Gummies (http://www.pedia-lax.com/Fiber-Gummies.php) but I recommended against this, as creating another stinky problem is no way to solve the first stinky problem.

In Recent

Recently it has become apparent that John actually does not suck. It was a miscalculation on our part, and we sincerely apologize for our misrepresentation. Everyone who knows John, please be sure to tell him how wonderful he is.

John Post Sucks

End of Story.