I decided to get a job to help more people. I was on my way to the interview and, just a street from where I would be interviewing at, I saw an old lady in the middle of the street in the path of the train. She stood there for too long a time for me to feel comfortable with her staying there. I use “stood” liberally because, in reality, she was an upside down “U,” her waist higher than her head. Her cane held up her arm and lower body, but somehow her head hung low like a willow just above the ground. Tens of Boston College students right by her, none of which seemed they would be much concerned had the train come by and hit her. Many Tinder meetings at Starbucks scheduled, although I give them some leeway because maybe they thought it could be good for someone of her stature and gait.
Anyway, I thought it might be good to help someone before going in for the interview. After all, that’s what I planned to be doing after if I got the job. Maybe this was an intensely intricate covert interview procedure, more likely a Truman-esque or cosmic procedure. So I helped her cross the street and not get hit. I guided her and let her hold my arm, but she seemed to want to continue to stand on the train tracks. Was I ruining this poor woman’s suicide attempt? I asked her where she was going. Why do you want to stand here? She was trying to get to the train stop, which was on the side we came from. I said, “Oh that’s on the side we came from.” We crossed back again. I told cars to stop. I said, “Stop cars!” I brought her back and near the stop she was looking for but only seeing ground.
Before I was with her, no one was looking at her. When I started talking to her and walking with her everyone was looking everytime I looked up, which was a small amount of the encounter since I was mostly down on the ground with her. I know what those BC kids were thinking. “Helping an old lady with a cane cross the street? How cliché.” I enjoyed being down on the ground with her like we were looking for a St. Giles necklace in a high grass field. Helped her at face level. Hope she got her train.
Oh, you’re worried about Pompo Omallo’s vow of silence and how he will able to find Gerrymander Hounder in Jickly Forest without being able to call for him.
“Okay was that… whole story thing… from you?”
No, it’s from Mr. Stylid. I told you.
“Okay but who the fuck is that?”
Some guy at last year’s county fair. He won Biggest Eggplant 2013.
“Is this real?”
Yes, this is real.
“Why would he randomly message you about Jockey Forests and stuff?”
He didn’t message me. I ran into him at the farmer’s market yesterday and he told the end of the story.
“You ran into him at the farmers market…”
And he told the end of the story. He left it last time while Pompo was still jumping jack. He wanted to inform me it had come to an end.
“Why didn’t you just get his number the first time to call him about it instead of waiting to run into him again, huh?”
Because the whole story sounded fucked… And this is a guy that competes in eggplant competitions. Not someone I want to have the digits necessarily. Goodnight.
“What? What the flip?”
You don’t care about Pompo.
Fine, so to recap. Pompo Omallo. Known as Jack by kids at recess of Tinkle Elementary. Has been doing jumping jacks for going on 17 years. Since late 1997. Feet shredded up. The story of how this started, told to me by Mr. Stylid, begins in Jickly Forest.
“You told me this. Did you make that up?! Or someone really did?”
I’m recapping for you. Someone did. Pompo trying to find his race-fueled yet often silent doggy Gerrymander Hound. Pomp can’t call out to him because he took a vow of silence after the death of his Uncle Lake Sweater, fondly referred to by his name because he lived by a pond and always wore cardigans. And Mr. Stylid seems to think his friends who gave him the name must have had poor diction –
“But who wrote this?”
No one has written it. I’m writing it now. And so, as the story happened. Pompo got lost in the silence of the forest. And in his own silence. Unsuccessful in finding Gerrymander, he was alone as a potential prey for the nocturnal Jicklies –
“So someone wrote this and you’re continuing it?!”
No one wrote it. Someone told me. I’m trying to tell you it. The sign on the front of the forest clearly read: THIS IS A FOREST. But that sign isn’t important to the story. There was another sign that was though –
“I like how you keep trying to tell and it and I’m interrupting.”
And the other sign read: IN THIS FOREST WE EAT YOU AT NIGHT SO LEAVE BEFORE SUNDOWN IF YOU DON’T WANT THAT. DUN DUN DUNNN. As Pompo walked through the forest, minutes before sundown, he thought to himself, “Here comes the dangerous part of this fucked up story.”
Pompo omallo has been doing shoeless jumping jacks since age 7. Now 23, his feet have been worn down to the heel, frightening Sligo Mishmosh and his ragtag crew of scalawags on the squash court at recess. That’s the ending of the story. Goodnight.
“23 at recess is pretty scary.”
Well, Tinkle Elementary and the ongoing recess had formed around Pompo, but the area had in fact been a mushroom grove in Jickly Forest when Pomp began his jumping jack routine some 16 years earlier… Pompo, or Jack, as Sligo’s crew referred to him, had been traversing Jickly Forest in late 1997, searching for his lost racist canine, Gerrymander Hound.
“I would like the story to continue. How was this story conceived? Is this yours?”
I wouldn’t say it’s mine.
“But you made it… Greymander would’ve been a better name that Gerrymander.”
No, I heard it from someone, but there is much more to be told. I’ve just begin to recount it to you.
“From who did you hear it from?! Did you just change the names?”
The story was passed on to me by Seymour Stylid at last year’s county fair. Gerrymander was her real name. And for good reason. All other names have been changed as to maintain the privacy of those originally involved and also because original names were too strange to be believable.
“Who the fuck is Seymour?…”
He told me half at last year’s county fair and I just heard the end right now when I bumped into him at the farmer’s market. And what an end it was.
I have been. Pomp was looking for ol’ Gerrymander in Jickly Forest, late 1997. Now the problem was that Gerrymander was a silent pup who only spoke when spoken to. And this wouldn’t’ve been an issue if it weren’t for the fact that Pomp had taken a vow of silence with the death of his now late Uncle Lake Sweater. Apparently they called him this because he lived by a pond and wore only cardigans for 16 years. When I asked Seymour why they hadn’t called him Pond Cardigan, he just laughed at me as if I were joking and I should’ve already known.
“WHERE IS THIS COMING FROM? From your mind?!?!?!”
How could I tell you something not from my mind, sweetie. Now sit on down and have a cocoa. Worry less. I brushed the Lake Sweater/Pond Cardigan name change off as if it didn’t matter. Just some result of family and friends who didn’t think much of words or getting the right ones. Or perhaps there had already been a pond sweater in Uncle Lake Sweater’s town of Chattanooga (not the one in Tennessee obviously). Either way there was a certain ring to Lake Sweater so I went with it. Said the man had worn sweaters to bed, sweaters to work on the fields, some said even a sweater on while he showered. And so they buried him in one. A cardigan, I mean. And right by the lake. I mean pond.
I have been inspired to start this series of posts by a handful of occurrences from the past week in which I tied up some loose ends. From now on each post will be one occurrence, but here are the initial few grouped together.
I walked by a man waiting at a bus stop. The bus approached. He asked me for two $5 bills for his $10 bill. Realizing he was trying to save himself from wasting ten bucks for a single bus fare (why don’t those things give change yet?), I offered him a 5 and three 1s, the only bills I had in my wallet, and he accepted. In retrospect it may have seemed a bit odd to the other man waiting at the bus stop. “Hi, can I give you 8 dollars for 10 dollars?” “Ya, thanks!” “Alright, peace.” The bus arrived shortly after. He was able to get on and hold on to a $5 bill he would have otherwise been throwing away had I not been there. I walked off with two extra dollars, first proud, later ashamed.
I later gave these extra dollars to a man asking for money at the train station. He was well dressed, asking for money, so there’s no telling how many refusals he had gotten that day and how many working people he had pissed off. It cost me only $2 for him to get his train, or his doughnut, or his drugs, and to relieve countless other commuters from having to pretend not to hear him as they continued on their more fortunate ways. +2
Total Loose Ends Tied: 2
A week later I was on my way to Kenmore Square in Boston to see the old buildings that were Grahm Jr. College in the 1960s. Andy Kaufman attended. I like him. Thank you veddy much. I was riding a Hubway bike in the rain toward Kenmore. It may as well have been Fischer Price with the way it handled. I saw an Apple on the ground – an iPhone. Quickly put it in my pocket and brought it in from the rain.
I emailed her. Hi, I found your phone out in the rain so I decided to take it in and give it shelter at the Barnes & Noble in Kenmore Square. They’ll have it at the counter. Don’t worry, it’s still seems to be working!
She replied later on. Will. MANY THANKS! I’ve just picked up my phone & couldn’t be more grateful. She spelled my named wrong. It’s one “l”. But she seemed happy. I mean caps and an exclamation point. Takes a lot to get there nowadays. And she was a Kaufman – an unexpected extra? Fate? Probably nothing… My finger did spark the first time I touched Kaufman’s dorm building. +1
Loose Ends Tied Up: 3
I left the library and took a call. My phone is much shittier, even shittier than the iPhone 3 she had. But of course, neither is actually shitty at all. A beggar with a cup 30 feet away in front of the McDonalds wanted a smoke. We negotiated the entire deal, the asking, the agreement, the “you got a light,” and the the thanking, with hand gestures alone as a I continued to talk on the phone. I liked that. As he lit up, so did he. +1
Loose Ends Tied Up: 4
On the way home I encountered an old arts-and-craftsy type lady screaming that someone had parked behind her car in her driveway. Kids were getting out of school across the street and it was likely that another mom had decided to park there just for the few minutes it would take to retrieve her kid. Art-and-crafts lady saw it differently. This was an abomination, and the highest of criminal acts. She pen and pad materialized in her hand and she began jotting down the license plate. I’m not sure how numbers could be fashioned with the anger of those hand gestures. Maybe it was all an act. The other mom came back, apologetic. Art-and crafts continued, “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’D DO THIS TO ME. I’D NEVER DO THIS TO YOU. I HAVE AN APPOINTMENT TO GET TO. I’D NEVER DO THIS TO YOU.” It’s hard to imagine there’d be a scenario where she needed to and equally hard to imagine the apologetic woman would be this furious about it. So apologetic woman moves her car and is apologetic and Arts-and-crafts storms back in her house. I stick around, attempting to film as I’ll start doing for these things if possible (I didn’t get any footage here as I thought my head might get bitten off or smashed by a repurposed Mason jar). The most important thing to me was making sure the apologetic mom was ok, so when she finished moving her car I made it clear, “That woman was a bitch. You didn’t deserve that.” These words were enough to restore a smile to her face and I’d like to think that maybe this prevented her from a day of feeling sorry for herself than going home, divorcing her husban,d and beating her child for taking her sweet time exiting the school. You never know. Butterfly effect. By the way, Art-and-crafts took another ten minutes to leave her house and by then apologetic mom and left with her child. Meh. +1
I only want to help people, in the freest and most playful sense of the word. First sentence and I’m already clamming up, worried you’ll judge me for my grammar errors. This is definitely not free-est? Most free. There we go. I have flirted with social work, gotten a degree in psychology from a pretty good university, but I’m left unsatisfied by all the current paradigms for help. I think this mainly has to do with the settings provided and corresponding stigma. You go to a hospital for a mental health problem and you’re crazy, but hold on to it and let it grow inside you as you walk the streets as a “normal” and you will be seen as normal. This is where I come in.
I want to help you on the streets. I’ve had all these crazy thoughts about ways to provide favors for strangers – driving around a van labelled HELP to replace a job our police once handled ’til they decided ALL they wanna do is shoot people. I know it’s stupid. But even when I take a short walk, I see all these LOOSE ENDS, needing to be tied up. All these frays in the cosmic fabric where my presence, or the presence of anyone who can see them for that matter, could step in and stitch things up relatively easily before the hole grows wider and pretty soon, ebola. What?! I don’t know, but it’s a hot issue.
Come with me as I help some people on the street and see if anything good happens.
By @BoldSymmetry updated 10:06 PM EST, Sat Mar 1, 2014
Come on guys, need we see more? Really makes you Wonder as to the truth about Stevie’s supposed “blindness,” doesn’t it? Sure, you’re supposed to see some gains in other senses after you’ve lost your vision, think Ben Affleck (as documented in Daredevil), but enough to react within seconds and catch an extremely thin falling pole? Enough to find all those keys on a piano, and even the small black ones? The man wears sunglasses. What are those used for, keeping the sun off his non-functioning eyes? Get a grip, whodie! I credit CNN and the few other notable news outlets that were willing to break such a risky and stigmatic story. This article is merely a further development of previously established findings, including additional support for the claim that has come as a result of crowdsourced Internet scouring. Stevie Wonder, We Just Called To Say We Caught You!
Not so funny after all.
According to legend, Wonder’s “condition” came as a result of a six-week premature birth and the excessively oxygen rich atmosphere in the incubator at the hospital where he was born. Considering recent news, it now seems the only thing being incubated here was a capital-see Conspiracy, a campaign of propaganda meant to propel an undeniably talented artist (we don’t deny that) to an unparalleled level of success, a story of overcoming that, while inspiring, had been manufactured in greed. After 53+ years of successful hoaxing on behalf of Wonder, and the Motown/Tamla record companies that originally propagated it, some new light is being shed. Is the video above alone not proof enough of the wool that has been pulled over our eyes as to the truth about Wonder’s vision? It is clear Wonder is reacting in a manner only a sighted man could.
Perhaps the remarks of certified forensic video analyst (CFVA) Makaia Ransom will further convince you of the validity of what the video demonstrates. Ransom confirms in the comments section as recently as February 14, 2014, “Oh snap he reached out for it.” This sentiment is also endorsed by leading FBI official Charles Bradley, who states on the matter, “O by the way #Stevieaintblind.” Take a look at the complete performance for what happens after the catch (1:19:00):
Wonder abruptly stops clapping to the beat for the first time in the performance, realizing his blunder. He then nudges Herbie Hancock beside him who, if anyone, may be knowledgeable of the hoax (Hancock had already tried to make it seem as if he caught the stand himself). The nudge seems to be Wonder’s way of saying, “Whoops! Almost fucked up big time my nigga! ” Additional evidence is provided by Mensa member and self-proclaimed “gangster of love” Bomani Jones in the two videos posted below:
Jones adds to the argument for Wonder’s sightedness, among other great points, the issues reiterated here:
Wonder would run around playing pranks on adults with no assistance as a child. How?
Wonder’s lyrics frequently reference imagery, colors and experiences that would have required vision, despite his being blind since birth! Strange, huh?
Stevie sits courtside at NBA games, trying to get the best view of the court, though he should have no view of the court. How could a spectator sport be fun for a blind guy?
Don’t believe any of the evidence just yet? How about some anecdotes from music industry insiders? Here’s an anecdote from Dylan of Diddy’s Da Band, who claims that Stevie Wonder, who was again inexplicably at an NBA All-Star game, was able to identify him from a distance in a crowded arena:
And a statement from none other than Boy George of Culture Club fame, as recounted by English forumer Kard (Holla Back Boy) of the renowned GovTeen Global Community:
I watched an interview with Boy George a few months back, and he reckons [Stevie Wonder]’s not completly blind since Stevie Wonder once came over and playfully strangled him at a party once, and Boy George was like; ‘how could he know where I was if he’s completly blind?’
[The original source of this secondary account of secondary source evidence can be found here, anda we can assure you that we are reporters of the highest caliber, holding standards of source verification to be of utmost importance. Be assured of the accuracy of our three-times removed report as it tells exactly what Holla Back Boy claims to have seen Boy George tell an unknown interviewer about a drunken memory of his in which Wonder definitely was maybe able to use his eyes at that party they were at. The hoax is real.]
It is important to acknowledge that this report not only suggests Wonder continued sightedness, but also his use of vision for violence and bigotry in strangulation of an openly, and some may say flamboyantly, homosexual man. The idea that Wonder is “like not completly blind” has been further corroborated by certified Yahoo! Answers reporter aflkdsj l. In a report from 2007, aflkdsj l’s work with a music expert referred to only as “my music teacher” yielded similar findings. The report was met with similar backlash due to aflkdsj l’s radical nature of questioning. The music teacher in question has, however, confirmed that Wonder does require corrective lenses, only a slight redress for his treachery as this hoax has been far more consequential than any other recorded instance of hyperbole.
Ultimately, Wonder appears to be rubbing the success of the hoax in our faces, what with his frequent NBA outings, and more recently with public bus-driving and taxi-driving antics. [Alright, we will admit that the reputability of the outsourced investigator looking into Wonder’s taxi-driving allegations, sh4rkybloke, seems to be questionable. He seems to be one of those asshats that rides his bike around with a camera on his stupid fuckin’ head, looking for car accidents. But, other than that, you can be assured, all of the rest of our sources are 100% trustworthy sources.] This leads us to our final question.
What are the ramifications of the Stevie Wonder Blind Hoax, perhaps the greatest hoax of all time? Does the man celebrated for over half a century for his musical talent in the face of adversity have his legacy revoked when that adversity is revealed as fraud? Is Part-Time Lover any less of a musical feat if its creator was a Part-Time See-er? The answers to these questions remain up for debate. We encourage you to share your take on the issue, to ask questions, and to demand answers of Wonder and his team! As for our take, well, first, man is Ray Charles lookin’ good right about now. We feel it is now difficult to refute Wonder’s deceit was anything short of very super vicious, and as for Wonder’s future in the entertainment industry, “the writing’s on the wall.”
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