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04/26/25   
The Answer. The Question. The Excuse.

The Truth About Ice Cubes

by Dr. Malcolm Zooter
bio/email
February 3, 2003
I've heard ice cubes scream
like unpleasant human beings
when I dunk them into my drink.
I'd say they're alive, don't you think?

Formed in their trays like a nursery,
living their lives brief and cursory,
but is everything quite what it seems?
What do they dream in their cold, frozen dreams?

What could they teach us,
if we were to listen,
mesmerized by the glean of their glisten?
Subtly speaking with clicks on my tumbler…
Speak up! I think this one's a mumbler.

The world's murky secrets revealed
in the cold, cubic truths they conceal…
This one knows why they shot Kennedy!
Oh shit, he melted in my grenadine!

Well this one won't look so glib
once he's floating in my warm Mr. Pibb.
I think he'll gladly spill his guts
in answer to my who's, when's and what's.

Yes, the truth now is growing far clearer
than the ice cube I nailed to my mirror.
The old, funky ones that smell like fish sticks
are clearly the wise ice cube mystics.

They tell me ice cubes form from the ether
when ideas slow down for a breather
and are trapped into cubes as they're frozen,
until for a beverage they're chosen.

They they're passed on to the drinker,
who promptly then becomes the thinker
of this now liberated idea
(about a new haircut or a pet made of chia)!

So if you see me chomping ice cubes en mass
or you notice no liquid in my glass,
don't think that my brain's gone on disconnect.
I'm just eating my way to great intellect.


Quote of the Day
“Fascism is not the devices and mechanisms that force us to our knees, but those who operate in the shadows and convince us "on our knees" is the place we're born. And the first seed of fascism is rent.”

-Crosby in 3F, every first of the month
Fortune 500 Cookie
Today is not your day, buddy—by a horrible bit of luck, your day was exactly six weeks before you were conceived. The good news is you look a lot like William Daniels; the bad news is that doesn't pay much these days. Watch out Thursday, when you're nearly buried in a deluge of Fangoria magazines that have been building up in your closet. Lucky numbers? You want luck? Eat me, sadsack.


Try again later.
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