Yesterday at work, I decided to take a break from the dull monotony of doing nothing while waiting for a delivery to come into being, to offer itself unto me, and I stepped out the back door of the pizza place into the dismal alley, surveyed the abandoned/condemned houses directly behind our building, and decided to have a cigarette. To be honest, the cigarette is the only reason I went outside in the first place, as it was fucking cold out.
While smoking, I decided to place a call to my girlfriend on my cellular phone. While smoking and speaking to my girlfriend on my cellular phone, I decided to stand on a cinderblock that was next to the short three step staircase that leads to the back door of my place of employment. While smoking, speaking to my girlfriend on my cellular phone and standing on a cinderblock next to the staircase leading to the back door of my place of employment, I began to think about loggers, and the fanciful life they must live in the forest- cutting down trees, being so close to nature, drinking extra-frothy beer out of pewter metal steins that are as big and heavy as the axes they wield, keeping giant blue oxen as pets, and the good hearted and lively competitions they undoubtedly come up with to keep themselves entertained during their long tenure in the woods. Games such as log and axe throwing, spear fishing, thinly veiled homoerotic wrestling, and logjamming. I think that's what it's called. No, not the porno about loggers (what an hilarious joke! huzzah! ..fucking idiot. -ed.)- the event, the activity logjamming. It's that thing where there's a log in the water, and the loggers run in place on the log, spinning it under their feet, and see who can stay on the log the longest. I'm pretty sure that's called logjamming. One thing I know about loggers is that they love logjamming. I can almost hear, feel, their hearty guffaws bellowing through the woods into the nearby village, awakening all the children in fear of what must surely be a spectre or ghoul in the dark, foreboding forest.
So, while smoking, speaking to my girlfriend on my cellular phone, standing on a cinderblock next to the staircase leading to the back door of my place of employment, and thinking about loggers and the fanciful life they must live in the forest, I began to fancy myself a modern day logger- one of a more urban nature, mind you. Peering down, I slowly began pushing the cinderblock underneath my feet forward ever so slightly, just to get an idea of what it must be like to be on the river and logjamming with great friends and even greater enemies, even though I was in a dismal alley on a structure that is probably the furthest shape one can get away from a log. Are there degrees of separation for shapes? If so, I would imagine these two things could probably be the bookends on the spectrum and no one would put up too much of a fight about the choice. Soon- too soon, I realize now- I became quite comfortable with my balance on my urban log, and became a bit more cavalier in my attempts at blazing a trail for the new sport "blockjamming," as I have termed it. Patent pending, fuckers.
Then this happened.
And this, too.
Then the world exploded and everyone died.