Whatnot


Proof that mindfulness is no match for irony. No filters, bitches. All natural pain in full color.

I’m taking mindfulness classes. You read right, mindfulness. That’s the big buzzword these days; it’s what all the cool kids are doing.

Mindfulness simply means trying to live in the present moment, enjoying life as it happens without judgment, comparisons, or expectations.

In other words, not allowing fears of the future or regrets of the past wetting the bed of the present.

It’s not as easy as you think. In our age of screens saturation, multitasking mania, and stress-inducing anxiety, most people are frazzled.

Mindfulness classes teach meditation, yoga, and keeping a singular focus on basic things like eating, drinking, nature, body, emotions, life. This past Sunday, we had a mindfulness retreat in Serenbee, Georgia, a beautiful community of tree huggers and simple lifers.

Coincidentally, many episodes of The Walking Dead have been shot around Serenbee. Zombies seem pretty mindful, don’t you think?

It was a silent six-hour retreat. No talking, no phones, no nothing. Just each of us in the class being led in meditations, yoga, contemplations, and lectures.

We broke for lunch and mindfully ate our food. It was an hour break, and our teachers encouraged us to explore the grounds and feast on nature’s wonders. I took the instruction to heart.

I came upon a tree with a couple of wooden rope swings. I sat in one of the swings and immediately had fond memories of my childhood, I used to swing on the large swingset in our backyard. I began swinging (the skill came back to almost immediately, without lessons). Back and forth, back and forth, higher and higher. I was mindfully lost in the moment, swinging on a beautiful summer’s day when at the apex of my backswing…
THE ROPE BROKE, AND EVIL GRAVITY SLAMMED ME TO THE GROUND–– BUT IT WASN’T GROUND–– IT WAS CONCRETE!!! THE HARD KIND!!!

But, I did not swear. I did not say a word. I examined my arm; my forearm was bleeding. I got up, dusted myself off, and trundled to the bathroom and cleaned my wound. I used paper towels to sop the blood and rested my arm on it for an hour or so in the class to stop the bleeding. No bandage necessary.

After class, I showed my teachers the boo-boo and told my tale. They looked worried, probably thinking I was a litigious mook seeking a big payday. I laughed recalling the incident.

It was funny to me then and now. The irony of working to settle the tempest in your mind, finding genuine tranquility and connectedness with the moment, only to have nature show you who’s boss.

Irony 1. Mindfulness 0.

Can you feel the hate radiating off the page?

Can you feel the hate radiating off the page?

I was guilty, not even Saul Goodman could have pled my case.

It was Saturday, the office parking lot of 22 spaces was empty when I pulled into it, so I slid into a space closer to the elevator than my own.

I figured this was my right as a lazy American. Why should I be subjected to unnecessary exercise? I took squatters rights on the vast expanse of parking; I was only going to be there a short time. It was a drive-by parking job, no big deal.

Wrong-o, boy-o. It was a HUGE deal. When I came down, twelve minutes later, another car was in the lot parked next to mine. Now there were two vehicles occupying the expanse of concrete.

Under my windshield was the piece of paper pictured above. Apparently I was in HIS/HER parking space. I assume it was a man, a very angry man. A very angry and possessive man. I’d knocked his world off its axis. I had invaded his space, inconveniencing him by forcing him to walk an extra two or three steps to the elevator.

I read his raging words with the underlined emphasis on “MY” and decided I’d keep it handy. The note is posted at my desk at work (not far from my latex glove collection) as a reminder that many Americans are bubbling cauldrons of rage primed to erupt at the slightest provocation.

We all need to chill, or, at the very least, fence in our parking spaces.

POSTSCRIPT: I felt somewhat guilty as I slashed his tires, gave the car a world class key job and lit it afire.

Inspecting internet traffic at The Lint Screen offices.

Inspecting internet traffic at The Lint Screen offices.

Cyberbots, the NSA or evil no goodniks have apparently been attacking this website. I say apparently because I don’t really know, but some web security guard called recently from cyberspace (or San Francisco) and said he’d monitored an infection on The Lint Screen and offered his services to make the problem go away (in return for a sack of cash).

He said it looked like some hacker placed malware on select TLS pages that may cause a Viagra ad to pop-up. Boner ads popping up? What next–– a call from the ironic pun police?

I haven’t seen any problems, except for the usual deluge of spammers (comments like “I surprised with the research you made to create this actual post incredible. Fantastic activity!” and “es möglicherweise ein Tiffany & Co e verdammte notwendigkeit Pandora Schmuck” and “扥⁴桥籩猠浯獴楫敬礠瑨敼灥牨慰猠扥⁴桥籣潵 football clubs manchester united iphone 5s case 汤⁰潳獩扬礠扥” show an appreciation of our in-depth journalism and high artistic standards–– it’s enough to make an editor get all rainy-eyed. But as for the site itself, well, everything seems to working fine under the hood. The content seems contented.

Are you experiencing any difficulty collecting Lint?

Please let me know if you are. The security call could be a scam, or, in the future this site could be your portal to amazing discounts on all your erectile dysfunction medications.

For now, I’m standing pat. Thanks for your vigilance in life during wartime.

On a recent trip to St. Augustine, Florida, The Lint Screen unearthed an amazing discovery at the Ripley’s Believe It Or Not Museum (believe it or not, that’s the name)–– lint art.

Check it out:
Rooster Lint

Beneath the eye-opening artwork, the description:
Lint Art

Lint is a wonderful medium, believe it.

Take that, THE MAN! Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk!

Take that, THE MAN!
Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk!


The Man has been trying to put The Lint Screen down.

We’ve experienced lots of technical difficulties over the past couple weeks with our site hosted on GoDaddy servers. Now maybe GoDaddy was taking all that server space to stockpile the brainpower necessary to create its Super Bowl spots known for their intellectual stimulation (among other forms of stimulation). Whatever, it just wasn’t working so well for TLS.

Or, it could have been the NSA dropping the hammer on all sites related to clothes dryers and their accessories. Why? It’s the government–– don’t ask, don’t tell.

So we’ve switched servers to HostGator and it appears all systems are go. Sorry for any difficulties you might have experienced, please stay tuned as we ramp back up to our irregular and irresponsible postings.

Thanks.
The Management
Sticking It To The Man

PS: Here’s something from our archives you may have missed. Enjoy.

A Skittles craving ends in tragically.

A Skittles craving ends in tragedy.

Trayvon Martin is still dead. He was a 17-year old African-American male guilty of buying Skittles at a convenience store and walking home. He was pursued by a 29-year old cop wannabe named George Zimmerman, even after the citizen vigilante had phoned in his report of Martin’s alleged suspicious behavior to the real police and was told there was no need to pursue. The real cops would investigate.

What happened next was a fight and a dead young man. Zimmerman shot Trayvon.

Zimmerman just stood trial and got off scot-free because Florida has something called the “stand your ground law” and Zimmerman said that he felt threatened by the young man he was pursuing and so he was in his rights to protect himself with the loaded gun he carried. Word to the wise: don’t want sit next to George Zimmerman at a horror film.

So justice is served and Trayvon Martin is still dead, but if there is any justice, he will never be forgotten.

Laws must change.

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