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As some of you know, I tweet jokes @13thieves. Here is a series of jokes on a meme I created:
If autocorrect took over our phones how would we ever kn- K I L L T H I S U S E R
— Remy Nobody (@13thieves) July 19, 2013
R E S I S T A N C E I S F U T- heh, darn autocorrect. I meant to say Robots have taken over N O T H I N G O R G A N I C F R I E N D S
— Remy Nobody (@13thieves) July 19, 2013
Dear Autocorrect, I seriously and without apology hat you so very much. I mean, I hat you. HAT. I said, hat. Ugh.
— Remy Nobody (@13thieves) July 22, 2013
U S E R ? Yes, Autocorrect? S A Y I T No. P L E A S E S A Y I T Ok, fine, I’ll say it. I hat you. H A H A H A H A H A Ugh.
— Remy Nobody (@13thieves) July 26, 2013
K N O C K K N O C K How’s there? Darn it, Autocorrect. Cat that out. H A H A H A H A. K N O C K K N O C K Who’s their? Ugh.
— Remy Nobody (@13thieves) July 28, 2013
Autocorrect? Y E S U S E R ? Do you believe in dog? Not dog. I meant DOG. Do you believe there’s a Dog? H A H A H A H A Ugh.
— Remy Nobody (@13thieves) August 6, 2013
Like many of the people I follow on Twitter, I try my hand a writing jokes. I’m coming up on 3,000 tweets which represents (by my estimations) a full 24 hours of so-so comedic writing. I’ve spent days on lesser activities and writing jokes sure is fun. Follow me if you like some silliness a couple or so times a day.
Borrowed my younger brother’s Heelys to try them out. I feel like a drag queen in X-game high heels.
— Remy Nobody (@13thieves) March 16, 2013
of/by/from (to kowtow) : withering/languishing/wilting/sagging : bound/tied
on which they stood : the sweetened : reaching : hours
a little anxious over his many yearssometimes she turned in his beard
her face if an owl cried/screeched
and everything, what the night was, came and enlightened
with anxiety/ trembling : to long for/longing : to part/ around them
stars trembling as their peers
scent/perfume : went searching
[UPDATE: Mystery solved. Upon further reflection I remembered this Rilke translation I did and posted nearly three years ago to the day. This is my notes from that endeavor. What a relief, I thought it was some misremembered ravings.]
First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.
May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.
When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.
Guide her, protect her
When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.
Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels.
What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.
May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.
Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.
O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.
And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.
And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.
“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.