Wow cones, that was really fun!
Really!
Ok. Let’s get out of here.
Um. Hey cones…I can’t…uh…um
Uh, hey cones? I get it ok? Yeah yeah. Joke’s on me.
Ha. I get it I said. Real funny.
Uh, cones. Cones! CONES!
I hate Stealers Wheel.
I am Cone Alone.
It started as fun and games.
Little help, please.
I'm begging for help. I'm gravelling at your base.
I feel like Screech during the beach episodes.
Oh, what a night. Sweet, Cone in heaven, what a night.
I got a call on my mobile cone from my friend, Billy the Barrel, saying, “Yes HAHA Yes Crazy Blllll AHHHHH!” I thought, “Well that is typical Billy.” Then I saw a text from him letting me know he was in the middle of his usual Friday Barrel of Fun party. I would have stayed home anyway as I don’t like to be around crowds since I work in traffic all day. However, I decided to go when I saw from Billy that a cone I fancy would be there.
When I arrived, the party was complete chaos. People were doing barrel stands, making out in the kitchen and even floating drunkenly in the bathtub.
Then I saw her.
She was in a crowd, but I recognized her special reflective tube top right away. That top could stop traffic (and sometimes does). I saw her. I walked over. I talked to her.
Well, not exactly.
I knew I would need some courage before I could speak to her, so I poured some coneac (cone-yak) into a red, plastic cup and drank it down. After the first embarrassing burp, I knew I was going to need a lot more to be bold.
I never did quite find that right balance between drunken courage and drunken stupor.
Long story short (“Too late!” as my friends who love pop culture references would yell at this point), I found myself sprawled out on the ground in front of a grocery store with a cap of shame atop my head and the vague recollection of never quite managing to cross the room to speak with the cone I adore.
I am cowardly.
I am hungover.
I am Cone Alone.
Ooooh, the shame
It’s not a tomb-ah.
Well, not technically that is.
While others dig graves (I guess they are ok), I have always marveled at the marble of markers of graves: headstones (also known as tombstones or gravestones).
I was never a fan of being social. I preferred to spend most of my time indoors on the computer playing Oregon Trail. To be honest, I didn’t much care for most of the game. Banker, farmer, carpenter. Whatever. You’re all fucked when you try to ford, or even Chevy, the river. I didn’t care for Oregon. I didn’t care for the pioneer spirit. I didn’t care for enduring hardship or shooting muskets or conquering dysentery.
“Dear Diarrhea,
OMG. Today my guts left my body in one continuous, watery bottom burp. Not sure how I am writing this now.”
I just waited for a party member to die. When one died, others would soon follow.
Turd was killed by snakebite.
Jed Butthead was eaten by a wild hillbilly.
Kyle Pee stopped in Missouri to become a Mormon and was killed by religious zealots.
The unstoppable plague of death would inevitably lead to my favorite part of the game: writing epitaphs.
I could be as crass and juvenile as my hormonal brain would allow. The sky (or the gutter) was the limit. I was truly alive when my party was dead.
I rested in the satisfaction that years later, somewhere down the road, a bright-eyed naïve pre-teen would be chugging along and come upon the tombstone of a traveler bested by the tenacious trail:
“Here lies Cone Alone. Butt Butt Ass Poop.”
I am a puerile poet.
I am Cone Alone.
Peeking interest
More headstones than a Phish concert
[Long silence]
Boo!
Bet I scared you, didn’t I?
Well, I’m sorry if it caused a resurgence of your heart condition. I didn’t know any better. I mean, I do it basically all the time, this surprise popping out at people, but no one has fainted or vomited or died yet.
I grew up around flashy cones, but flashy isn’t really my style. I like to disappear, like that Metallica song from one of those Mission Impossible films starring Tom Cruise. I’d rather be seen, not heard. Well, at least until I’m ready to jump out and startle someone.
I’ve always been a fan of the gotcha kind of surprise. I guess Katie Couric and I are similar in that way. Except I don’t think she hides in bushes, camouflaging herself to fade into the foliage until HAHA here I am! But I’ve never met her, so I don’t know what she does in her down time.
I had three brothers and one sister and they were always coning around, being the center lanes of attention. Not me. I wait for my moment. I lurk like a conical jungle cat, hiding, stalking until just the right moment to make my debut.
Then, I go back to hiding until the next time. But I’ve already left my impression on you.
I fade from view but not from mind.
I am Cone Alone.
I belong in Hyde Park.
Cones are a valuable part of our society. And few cones are as valuable, or as diverse as traffic cones, or pylons, the tireless workers of the streets.
The years have seen the creation of the Traffic Cone Preservation Society, the development of an organization to free cones from their forced labor, the writing of poems for cones (even one called “Cone Alone”) and the positing of a theory that cones are engaged in a secret plot against humans. We even have photographs of cones around the town. Yet, human society still has not experienced the wisdom and collective knowledge of the cones themselves.
This blog is dedicated to capturing the Cone Alone in its natural habit: at work, at play and everywhere in between, and then allowing the cones to write what they were thinking at the time. This blog sees Cone Alone at its best and its worst and gets their perspective.
All Cone Alone speak for themselves. This is their story. The story of Cone Alone.
*Note: No Cone Alone was harmed during photographic documentation, and all Cone Alone participants are pictured with no tampering or manipulation by the photographer.
Cone Alone 