D. Allen
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David Allen is a mathematician, graphic artist, writer, personal trainer, and video producer for-hire.  But, honestly, you'll be lucky if he blogs on any of these things.  He'll probably just tell you how his day is going (or how yours should be).

Postence: An Epilogue to My Pretence

Recently, I was accused of loving condescension by a faceless interlocutor on Facebook. (I had written "I fear you misunderstand" to something which, I fear, he had misunderstood.) This, I suppose, comes as particularly funny to me now that I live in another country—one in whose native tongue I often errantly babble things such as "Oh, you cut the eyes. It looks good!", "Can you repeat that strawberry?", and "Yes, '12 Euro,' I said '2 Euro'."  See, I find myself craving people not to whom I may condescend, but those who might divert me with interesting debate or conversation. But, until my French is good enough to speak with well-formed, thought provoking strawberries, I am at a loss.

(For the record, my wife is wonderfully diverting, but it's nice/necessary to have diversity of opinion and perspective in one's life.)

At any rate, I don't like condescension.  But, I must admit, that I can come across undesirably pretentious at times (I am working on this, while trying to maintain a modicum of honesty in all I say—a balance which proves very difficult).  This is all to say, of course, that I submitted a list to McSweeney's Internet Tendency which was (understandably) rejected for being too "niche." (I've only once published a list with them before: Opposite Opening Lines to Famous Novels)

I'll just post it here:

List: Currer Bell's 'Yo Momma' Jokes

Human beings must love something, and, in the dearth of worthier objects of affection, I contrived to find a pleasure in loving and cherishing yo momma, shabby as a miniature scarecrow, throughout the night.

It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquillity: they must have unmuzzled crazies; so they suffer yo momma.

There is only one difference between yo momma and me. I am not mad.

Yo momma had no right to be born; for she makes no use of life. Instead of living for, in, and with herself, as a reasonable being ought, she seeks only to fasten her thighs about the dredge of society.

Yo momma makes a restless pillow.

Sometimes I have the strangest feeling about yo momma. Especially when she speaks to me as she does now. It feels as though I have a string tied here to the part of my eardrum which best perceive screeches, tightly knotted to her lips in a similar fashion. And when she speaks as she does, with all that stupidity, I am afraid that this cord will be snapped, and my ears shall bleed inwardly.

I was actually permitting myself to experience a sickening sense of disappointment: but rallying my wits, and recollecting my principles, I at once called my sensations to order; and it was wonderful how I got over the temporary blunder—how I cleared up the mistake of spending that night with yo momma.

Reader, yo momma.

I understood the nicheness (it was nice of them to mention, however, that they found it objectively funny). Of course, this led to me thinking of things which were more obscure than that which prompted such musings—leading, in turn, to the following submission. I understand that this could easily be taken as some sort of snarky, ill response to my former rejection. It should not be taken that way.

List: Niche Lists Rejected by McSweeney's Internet Tendency

Currer Bell’s Yo Momma Jokes

Copyright Lawsuits Filed Against Pierre Menard, Author of Don Quixote

Lines from Sappho’s Lesser-Known Epithalamium in dactylic hexameter, “Bitch Be Cray”

Mean Names Native Chiefs Have Called Werner Herzog

Campaign Slogans for Ted Cruz Which Were, Coincidentally, Also Use By the Know-Nothing Party in 1855

Inside Jokes My Cousin, Thomas, and I Have Regarding Italian Neorealist Filmmakers

Disco Albums by Whig Historians Which Were Direct Contributors to the Death of Disco

As it turns out, they don't publish anything which is self-referential.