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The Other Side of the Ditch #6 (of 6)

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I joined the high school newspaper in my senior year for one reason—so I could have my own comic-strip. It was called Dweezlebwob 634 and featured talking cheese and a sentient severed finger, amongst other oddities. Despite this, the newspaper staff also saw fit to foolishly give me my own column, “The Other Side of the Ditch.” I squandered this honor by writing about ludicrous conspiracies and other facetious topics.

Below is the sixth installment—this was my favorite (although it is overly sentimental and heavy-handed and inundated with quotation marks). Even people that hated my column seemed to dig this one. It was my last story before graduating.

The Other Side of the Ditch
Number Six
5 May 1995

Just as summer must end and allow fall to kill what remains, so must I leave the banks upon the other side of this ditch and allow the entrance of its autumn.

Fewer than many have pondered what exactly lies on “the other side” and what exactly “the other side” is. Once when I was very small and on one of those journeys we find ourselves on when so young, I came upon a large chasm. It was the essence of this ditch we call life. All, as we know it, lies upon this side where we stand. Yet “the other side” was so vast, welcoming, and mysterious. This “ditch” was too large to cross and I sorrowfully left it, having not attempted to cross it.

Not so long ago I heard it calling to me in my dreams. I returned to it and the chasm had grown and all upon “the other side” had withered. Closing my eyes, I leapt and found myself on “The Other Side of the Ditch.” As I walked about I felt this presence. It teemed with life. It was more alive than anything that I have ever known. Its boundaries were only limited by the reaches of my imagination. Now that I had come, its withered land began to bloom once again. “The other side” is a parasite. It fed off me—fueling its magical land of imagination. Our relationship was symbiotic, for I learned and fed off it as well. I became the bridge which linked both sides of the “ditch.” I shared its wonders and lived happily as its host.

Alas, it could not last forever for the sands of time have pressed me. Time changes everything and I have grown. Now has come the time for me to leave “the other side” and return to the side that spawned me. We all must grow and leave our dearest things behind, for we must keep the cycle spinning. Perhaps, I am the one who has gained the most in our relationship, for “the other side” has shaped me. It will always be part of me, awaiting my return. Without me, “the other side” is dead. It cannot live alone. I shall go on to grow as “the other side” continues to slowly waste away. One day I shall return and it will still be waiting, my own little giving tree. I will be wiser and “the other side” will once again bloom and grow even more vast. For now, it must lie dead. Do not shed a tear. The summer always returns.

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The Other Side of the Ditch #5 (of 6)

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I joined the high school newspaper in my senior year for one reason—so I could have my own comic-strip. It was called Dweezlebwob 634 and featured talking cheese and a sentient severed finger, amongst other oddities. Despite this, the newspaper staff also saw fit to foolishly give me my own column, “The Other Side of the Ditch.” I squandered this honor by writing about ludicrous conspiracies and other facetious topics.

Below is the fifth installment—a clumsily rhyming kid’s story about rocks.

Note – I have drastically rewritten and expanded this story many times. One day, maybe, I’ll finally make it into an illustrated book. Below is the original as it appeared in the paper.

The Other Side of the Ditch
Number Five
31 March 1995

Often, as I sit here on the other side of the ditch, I contemplate the meaning of life and other riddles. Just like so many others I have pondered why rocks cannot move. One day I was enlightened by a small boy known only as “He who is of the sea.” He told me of a time long ago when rocks could move, and move they did.

Willard Willy Gooben Smit was just a little boy. He lived in a quiet village where never lived a toy. A village where the only little boy was he. A village where he was alone and thought he would always be. Willard Willy Gooben Smit grew tired of his boredom. So he up and left one day to travel to a kingdom.

He journeyed for forty nights and forty-one days when finally he found a land full of empty bays. Not a single ship sat in the thousands of their docks, for the waters were rapid and full of scary rocks. These rocks were no normal rocks, not nice at all, you see. When these rocks saw young Willard Willy Gooben Smit they screamed at him in glee. In a glee that only evil things would want to be.

Young Willard Willy Gooben Smit grew scared and off he ran, but right behind him were all the rocks that lived in all the land. Scores of rocks times 400 all at his poor feet. Willard Willy Gooben Smit did not think this was neat. The rocks drew near and young Willard Willy Gooben Smit was scared. He wanted to be safe yet the rocks did not about this care. Suddenly, BOONG ZANG ZOOLAR, he had a grand, great plan. He shook his fist three times real fast, then laid down flat his hand. Oh, the rocks now sat in fear of Willard Willy Gooben Smit. Rock, paper, scissors; he threw paper, what a clever wit! For paper always covers rock and rocks these villains were. They sat in fear, had lost the war and like hurt kittens purr. Still to this day, the beaten rocks sit down scared and purr. For they remember young Willard Willy Gooben Smit and what a wit he were.

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The Other Side of the Ditch #4 (of 6)

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I joined the high school newspaper in my senior year for one reason—so I could have my own comic-strip. It was called Dweezlebwob 634 and featured talking cheese and a sentient severed finger, amongst other oddities. Despite this, the newspaper staff also saw fit to foolishly give me my own column, “The Other Side of the Ditch.” I squandered this honor by writing about ludicrous conspiracies and other facetious topics.

Below is the fourth installment—highlighting Jack The Ripper, aliens, and hamburgers.

The Other Side of the Ditch
Number Four
14 February 1995

Long ago, a man known only as “Jack The Ripper” murdered and mutilated women. Unbeknownst to most, he has returned to mutilate cattle and use their body parts to conquer Earth in the name of his home planet, Ziplineoffuningiss.

“Jack The Ripper” is an alien. He began his mutilation of women as an experiment to create a female form of Frankenstein’s Monster. His plan was to use this female atrocity to attract Frankenstein’s Monster and use him to overpower humanity. To Jack’s dismay, he discovered that Frankenstein was merely a book, and the monster did not exist. In disgrace, he returned to his planet.

Now, Jack has returned to Earth. To save his name he has constructed a more vile plan for world domination. Jack has begun to mutilate cattle and use their organs and such to make hamburgers. These are no ordinary hamburgers, Jack adds to them a special isotope indigenous only to his planet. This isotope makes burgers addictive. His plan was to open a franchise which would sell these addictive additive-enhanced hamburgers. As customers became addicted, they would become his pawns (and by stealing the cow innards, his profit would near 70%). As he saw it, he could not lose.

Unknown to Jack, his isotope underwent a chemical change upon entering Earth’s atmosphere. It became poisonous causing his burgers to become poisonous and ultimately his franchise. His plans were once again foiled. As customers began to sicken and die, their numbers started dwindling. His dreams crumbled as his “Jack In The Box” franchise began to disappear.

Too ashamed to return home, Jack has gone into seclusion. Rumor has it he plans to become a televangelist.

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The Other Side of the Ditch #3 (of 6)

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I joined the high school newspaper in my senior year for one reason—so I could have my own comic-strip. It was called Dweezlebwob 634 and featured talking cheese and a sentient severed finger, amongst other oddities. Despite this, the newspaper staff also saw fit to foolishly give me my own column, “The Other Side of the Ditch.” I squandered this honor by writing about ludicrous conspiracies and other facetious topics.

Below is the third installment—revealing the despicable truth of Atlantis.

Note – Atlantis was apparently a recurring theme in my youth. In college, I created this asinine audio news story about atomic break-fighting in Ancient Atlantis.

The Other Side of the Ditch
Number Three
16 December 1994

Many have stopped along the beach to admire the sound of the “sea” being emitted from a conch shell. This sound is so peaceful and relaxing it could open anyone’s mind to the disastrous brainwashing of the Ancient Atlanteans.

It is legend that, ages ago, one said city of Atlantis sank into one unsaid sea. It is popular belief that everyone perished. According to others, including one Roscoe Maurice Higgety, “Them there Atlantis-people made space saucers and lived under that water and, by Jimminy, them there Atlantis-people still do!” This raises an interesting question (ignore Higgety’s space saucer comment), what if Atlanteans did survive and possibly adapt to undersea life? That could certainly solve the riddle of the Bermuda Triangle.

You see, the Atlanteans live within the Bermuda Triangle in a highly-advanced modification of Ancient Atlantis. They use numerous highly-incomprehensible devices to capture, harass, or confuse petty humans entering the confines of their territory (a sort of new-age turf war). The Atlanteans use their human hostages as slaves and guinea-pigs (they do so love pets, you were right, Perry Farrel). The trout, Ronald Finnegan explained this when he used our hypnotized forefathers to write “The Constitution.” For much like “Beowulf,” it was actually written by a clever fish in the Fishineese language (see September’s paper). “The Constitution” is really a warning of Atlantis’ master plan.

Using one of their plentiful highly-incomprehensible devices, the Atlanteans have turned mere conch shells into brainwashing weapons. The sound of the “sea” it produces lulls any average human into a highly submissove state. The Atlanteans feed you subliminal messages through the conch shells. These messages are embedded into the subconscious of all conch listeners forcing the listener to obey these subliminal commands. We are all pawns of Atlantis. They command us to buy their products and make them rich, for he who holds the money holds the planet. Labels reading “Made in Taiwan” or “China” or somewhere where everything seems to be made are likely to really be manufactured by Atlantis. Our only hope is our own stupidity. As mankind continues to destroy his planet, less conch shells are lying about and less people are outside on the polluted seashores to pick them up. Fewer people are being brainwashed and more American manufacturers are rising. Atlantis’ hopes shall continue to dwindle as long as we remain so self-destructive. Things are looking bright.

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The Other Side of the Ditch #2 (of 6)

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I joined the high school newspaper in my senior year for one reason—so I could have my own comic-strip. It was called Dweezlebwob 634 and featured talking cheese and a sentient severed finger, amongst other oddities. Despite this, the newspaper staff also saw fit to foolishly give me my own column, “The Other Side of the Ditch.” I squandered this honor by writing about ludicrous conspiracies and other facetious topics.

Below is the second installment—a revelation of the dangers of mosquitoes.

Note – yes, I know who Kirk Cameron is and no, Kurt Cobain was not still in a coma at this time. He had died six months prior. Yes, I was aware of these things before I wrote this column.

The Other Side of the Ditch
Number Two
28 October 1994

As of late, Louisiana is being plagued by mosquitoes that carry encephalitis. To common eyes, it would appear to be a natural epidemic, but it is apparent that it is truly a conspiracy on behalf of mosquitoes to reclaim the earth.

Steven Spielberg’s movie “Jurassic Park” raises two interesting points. The first is that not only did mosquitoes exist during the age of dinosaurs, but they were able to retain their blood and obviously their DNA. The other point is that dinosaurs were the predecessors of the bird. I am definitely not one to accuse Steven Spielberg or Michael Crichton of lying, so their data must be factual. It is common knowledge that the dangerous encephalitisly-infected mosquitoes are contracting the disease from birds. Birds, a form of mutated dinosaur, are passing this disease onto mosquitoes, an insect with the ability to store DNA in its body and allow humans to replicate the dinosaur.

If anyone doubts that the bird could be the offspring of the feral dinosaur, let them be reminded of Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds,” a movie (as well as a story, but who reads nowadays?) in which birds (mutated dinosaurs) attack and mutilate humanity. In reality, birds may have a hard time destroying mankind, but its ancestral dinosaur may not. Allow me to explain. Encephalitis causes inflammation of the brain. This can cause brain damage, as well as inexpressive facial expressions. It is also the “sleeping sickness” which can cause one to lapse into a coma (Do not forget about that Kirk Cameron guy from Nirvana who is in a coma, rather suspicious). A mentally-challenged, inexpressive, comatose human is basically a zombie or pawn. Long ago, birds bred encephalitis in hopes of using it someday to control mankind. When human scientists become zombified slaves of the mosquitoes, these puppets will be used to imitate “Jurassic Park” and bring back the dinosaur. If birds are truly mutated dinosaurs, they will use their DNA (easily extracted from mosquitoes) to recreate the dinosaur. These dinosaurs will decimate humanity and reclaim Earth. If this still seems unlikely, consider the following: this generation of toddlers have already become the followers of the purple dinosaur, Barney. If this one ingenious, charismatic dinosaur can control the next generation, imagine what a million could do.

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The Other Side of the Ditch #1 (of 6)

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I joined the high school newspaper in my senior year for one reason—so I could have my own comic-strip. It was called Dweezlebwob 634 and featured talking cheese and a sentient severed finger, amongst other oddities. Despite this, the newspaper staff also saw fit to foolishly give me my own column, “The Other Side of the Ditch.” I squandered this honor by writing about ludicrous conspiracies and other facetious topics.

Below is the first installment—a treatise on the true meaning of the epic poem Beowulf.

The Other Side of the Ditch
Number One
30 September 1994

In English classes throughout our nation students are being forced to read the epic “Beowulf,” but very few suspect its true origin. Written by the extremely late fish, Harold Ofindenheimer, “Beowulf” is not about the archetype of a hero, but instead the process of making a sandwich.

It is a shame that so few suspect the existence of the fish language, Fishineese. Fish throughout history have formulated a form of communication that parallels English. It uses the same alphabet and words except they have different meanings and pronunciations. Long before man existed, the fish had perfected this language. Unfortunately, it is difficult for fish to write underwater. The paper deteriorates and the ink always smears. When the first fish evolved into an amphibian, he scribbled this alphabet on a rock. Long after, man came along and found this stone and, of course, he greedily took the credit.

It is popular belief that “Beowulf” was written in the tenth century by a monk. Not so. Ofindenheimer was this monk’s goldfish. Being a natural genius, as most fish are, Ofindenheimer hypnotized his monkish owner with his glittery scales. It is common knowledge that many people have claimed to understand fish when under hypnosis. It seems that a branch of the subconscious stores an ability to decipher similar languages. Naturally, Ofindenheimer was able to dictate his story to the hypnotized monk and have him record it like a common stenographer.

Ofindenheimer’s “Beowulf,” meaning “Hold the Tomato” in Fishineese, is about the painstaking process of creating the ideal sandwich. When the monk awoke from his state of submission, he lost his unconscious link with Fishineese. Looking into his hands, he believed he had concocted an epic about Beowulf, the ideal hero. Horribly offended, Ofindenheimer vowed to never “write” again. “Hold the Tomato” is a beautifully phrased composition. It is a shame Ofindenheimer never wrote again. It is a common rumor among dolphins that he always dreamed of writing about meatloaf; the dish, not the singer.

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