Slumpy posted:

jim brings a gun to work

Modulo16 posted:

Jim gives everyone in the office 5$ to ignore him, and he convinces dwight that he is schizophrenic and that he is a figment of his imagination.

A Fancy Hat posted:

Applewhite posted:

Which famous horror writer are you? If you're not doing this for a living you should be.

A Fancy Hat posted:

The Jim-bird-thing rapidly flies into the air, mimicking the entire cast of Battlestar Galactica, mocking Dwight. Somewhere, Jim-Prime begins to laugh.

Bad Purchase posted:

Dwight was on his way home when he died.
It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. He left behind a wife and child. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save him, but to no avail. His body was so utterly shattered he was better off, trust me.
And that’s when he met me.
“What… what happened?” He asked. “Where am I?”
“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.
“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”
“Yup,” I said.
“I… I died?”
“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said.
Dwight looked around. There was nothingness. Just him and me. “What is this place?” he asked. “Is this the afterlife?”
“More or less,” I said.
“Are you god?” he asked.
“Yup,” I replied, mugging the camera. “I’m God.”
“My kid… my wife,” he said.
“What about them?”
“Will they be all right?”
“That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.”
Dwight looked at me with fascination. To him, I didn’t look like God. I just looked like some man. Some vague corporate figure, maybe. More of an early 21st century New England office worker than the almighty.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kid will remember you as perfect in every way. He didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. His mother will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your childbearing contract was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.”
“Oh,” he said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?”
“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”
“Ah,” he said. “So the Hindus were right,”
“All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.”
He followed along as we strode through the void. “Where are we going?”
“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.”
“So what’s the point, then?” he asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.”
“Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.”
I stopped walking and took him by the shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had.
“You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.”
“How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”
“Oh lots. Lots and lots. And in to lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”
“Wait, what?” he stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?”
“Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.”
“Where you come from?” he said.
“Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly you wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh,” he said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.”
“Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.”
“So what’s the point of it all?”
“Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?”
“Well it’s a reasonable question,” Dwight persisted.
I looked him in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.”
“You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”
“No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.”
“Just me? What about everyone else?”
“There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.”
He stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…”
“All you. Different incarnations of you.”
“Wait. I’m everyone!?”
“Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back.
“I’m every human being who ever lived?”
“Or who will ever live, yes.”
“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”
“And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added.
“I’m Hitler?” he said, appalled.
“And you’re the millions he killed.”
“I’m Jesus?”
“And you’re everyone who followed him.”
Dwight fell silent.
“Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”
He thought for a long time.
“What about Jim?” he asked me. “Was I Jim too?”
“No,” I mugged, “you were not Jim.”
“Why?” He asked me. “Why do all this?”
“Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.”
“Whoa,” he said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?”
“No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.”
“So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…”
“An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.”
I pause my finger over a button labeled “Chinese peasant girl, 540 AD”.
“No, not yet” I think to myself, as my finger continues to a familiar button whose push I’ve felt a billion billion times. “Dwight, 1970”

The Bramble posted:

It's been a month and I still think about this post...

quote:

“No,” I mugged, “you were not Jim.”

The Bramble posted:

It's been a month and I still think about this post...

ilmucche posted:

"No! I must stop the pranksters," he shouted!
The radio said "No, Dwight. You are the pranksters."
And then, Dwight mugged the camera.