I’ve got about 50 lb of dry ice if you need some.
There’s just gotta be a story behind this. 😉
Knock knock!
Who’s there?
Snow.
Snow who?
Snow power here. Need some dry ice?
My kingdom for a hunk of dry ice.
Oh, my. “What evil lurks like sauerkraut?” This thread is unreal.
Blink, blink goes the lights… beep, beep from the UPS… 20 seconds and the varoom sound with lights abound.
Oh dear generator. Where have you been for so many years of fear.
Warm rooms, cold freezer and lights to brighten the darkness.
Ah what blissful sleep.
Thank you Honeywell.
Shakespeare:
Is this dry ice which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? Or art thou but
Dry ice of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressèd brain?
Shakespeare:
Double, double toil and trouble
Dry ice burn and Guilders bubble
Thomas Paine:
This is the dry ice that tries men’s souls.
H.L. Mencken:
What is it about dry ice that sets it apart, that elevates it above the common frozen throng? I confess that I am unsure, though not completely so, and I am inclined to think that it is advanced in its stature largely by the reputation of its purveyors. Who sallies forth bearing regular ice? Noisy cads and huxters, braying puerile rhymes like so many juvenile donkeys. And who bears dry ice? Esteemed, philanthropic lads, gentlemen of the quill rather than of the bullhorn. And for that, we thank them.
Dickens:
To being the story, at the beginning of the story, and not at the end when the ice had long since faded into a shadowy mist that filled the room and shadded poor miss Abagale’s tearful face, as she drifted into her oft trodden memories of her late husbands glory years in the sheep and poutry business in south Hamshire where they kept house for the Delwains and their halfwit son, Jacob, I should start by saying there was 50 pounds of unwanted ice, lacking in moisture.
Hunter S. Thompson:
We had two sides of beef, seventy-five pounds of dry ice, five quarts of gourmet ice cream, a shaker half-full of leftover Bloody Marys and a whole multicolored collection of Popsicles, Fudgsicles, Dreamsicles, Scooter Crunch bars … Also, a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of beer, a pint of raw maple syrup and two dozen free-range eggs. Not that we needed all that for the kitchen, but once you get into a serious refrigerator collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.
Hemingway:
“The electricity flowed again. The man had many freezers. He was feeling benevolent. It is more than 50 pounds, he thought. It is 80 pounds. No, it is 100 pounds. He did not need 100 pounds of dry ice. So much dry ice, and the creak of the oars, and the raw rope cutting his hands. Oh God. His hands. The dry ice.”
O. Henry:
“For sale: Dry ice. Never used.”
José Saramago:
There was a flicker and for an instant complete blackness, but then light filled the room again suddenly, and she thought, was it real, or did I imagine it. She found her toe poised for the next step, and her foot lowered itself to the floor, while her mind turned away. It was as she looked through the window that the darkness fell. No, her husband wailed. They had forgotten the frozen food for so long, but now she thought first of the lasagna and then, she found she could no longer remember the way to the refrigerator in the dark. Save the ice cream. We all know that no matter how well-suited a food is to freezing, one day a hand will find it rough to the touch, a nose will encounter the stale smell of old crumbs and not the food itself, its essential flavor having been lost. The man decides, yes, he will use dry ice to save his food in the darkness, but how to get enough?
Edgar Allan Poe:
Once upon a midnight frozen, while the drifts of snow did close in,
When the wind doth chill my clothes in scarf round tight to keep my nose in.
While I nodded nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping.
As of someone gently tapping, tapping on an old keyboard.
‘Tis some coder, I grumbled, tapping on an old keyboard.
Just some code and nothing more.
The snow was silence, not a shout. Water solid at the spout.
What was that code all about? What evil lurks like sauerkraut?
At the keyboard, so devout, at least, until the lights went out.
And then the tapping, the constant tapping, with anguished brain synapping
Was nevermore.
Stumbled weary in the night, bumping chairs in absent light.
Losing self, give up the fight. Terror grows from lack of sight.
Must go on, go on despite the fearsome fall of Fahrenheit.
Must go on, must quick restore, the ice cream in the freezer door.
No I can’t. I can’t ignore the tragic loss of precious store.
Ben and Jerry’s Nevermore.
In my daze I spun around. Dashed to the car to go downtown.
Mindless that I’ll be snowbound, or found dead and stiff upon the ground.
To buy some ice. It must be found. The driest kind, ’bout fifty pound.
I seized a box, a burden heavy. Paid the clerk. Hopped in the Chevy.
Sped back home, foot to the floor. ‘Tis a speed limit, nothing more.
Opened wide the freezer door. Poured half the box. It took no more.
Took half the box and nothing more.
Ayn Rand:
Hank’s suite occupied the top floor of the Rearden Dry Ice Enterprises building. It was the tallest, proudest building in the city, commissioned 45 years earlier by his father, Mittney, the founder Rearden Dry Ice. Hank stared out the west window of his suite; he gazed down on a city that was quietly fading into a darkening sky. Most employees had left the city hours ago. Hank wasn’t thinking of his father; he was thinking of only one man – Baron Schwartz.
“What’s the matter, Hank” asked Dagny, as she gently stroked his bare forearm. Hank often rolled up his sleeves. “It’s Baron” he replied. “Did you see what the press is saying about him? They treat him like a hero. For what? For giving away dry ice.” “But darling”, cooed Dagny, “It’s only 50 lbs.” Hank snorted. He thought to himself, “50 lbs, my father started with less than that”
Robert Frost:
There’s a block of dry ice in the corner
That I remember now
Was a gift in the storm
I got somehow.
It is wisping away as if
Never more than a vapor,
It’s destiny to vanish
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Robert Frost:
The ice is dry, as you may know
I no longer need it though
My fridge is up and running here
Although my woods filled up with snow.
Ice sublime like wind
Descends in water bubbling
Where have you gone to?
Tolstoy:
Every bag of cubed ice is the same. And each bag of dry ice is different its own way. Deboravitch Weisskolsy mused at the task facing her — her brother in law, Jacovakov Smithoranovich, was in the trouble again, having “borrowed” a bag of the precious substance, not realizing that it rightfully belonged to the notoriously vengeful aristocrat, Baron Von Schwartz. She set out for the Von Schwartz mansion with a heavy heart, but, upon arriving and giving her card to the servant, forced a smile on her face. The Baron was famously susceptible to flattery…
Tom Swift:
“Anyone want some free dry ice?” he asked coldly.
Tom Swift, V2.0
“Anyone want some free dry ice?” he offered pricelessly.
Wallace Stevens:
Call the planters of broken poles,
The muscular ones, and bid them fix
The blighted land and lightscape.
Let the wretched fumble in the dark
as they are inclined and let the paperboys
bring yesterday’s newspapers.
Let free be finale of price.
The only emperor is the emperor of dry ice.
Take from the list serv of Guild,
that deals in parts and code,
dentists and Dells.
A cold and generous offering
conjures brilliance in the wake of reclamation.
Let the lamps shine bright and nice.
The only emperor is the emperor of dry ice.
e. e. cummings:
i (dry)
(sub) lime
c
(gas) cold white despair
e
H.P. Lovecraft:
In the face of the morning sun, it seemed an eternity had passed in the overnight. The cold was now conquered, driven back to the Jotun realms deep in the memories of men, sent fleeing from this reality by the handiwork of mankind’s inventive nature and creativity, I stood fresh and awake and ready for a new day and my own renewed purpose.
It was then I noticed it.
There I stood in sunlight that now at once lit the ground with golden radiance worthy of the courts of Mycenae, I felt myself drawn, noting only the inky depths of the shadows that began to call forth to my soul, and a fell chill returned that brought reminders. I had done something. Something terrible.
As the shadows cast grew deeper, images slowly seeped into my mind as I recalled my fear. I imagined myself there, suddenly cast into darkness, my world slowly melting around me. As I fixed my horrified gaze upon now this and now that, my lack of power to change my world’s march towards putrescence had been interrupted suddenly by a voice.
A voice? Perhaps not at first. I vaguely recall it now. I quiet hiss? A notion? Something compelled me, during that moment of despair, to make a deal with the frigid Plutonian spirit who owned that voice.
It offered me a portion of it’s essence. It offered it freely, smiling as an erstwhile neighbor and dear friend. It offered an icy block, and in my blind helplessness I foolishly accepted without asking the price.
I was overjoyed, I recall. Yes, I was happy for that loan, which I put to quick use to stop the processes that threatened to take my household. I felt secure in my position, and thought nothing more of what the terms of the loan might be.
Time passed, and suddenly I found myself fully empowered. The lifeless darkness retreated, and the horrors of the grey days faded, along with my compact with the frozen spectre.
And here I am now, and I too late realize the truth of the contract. My ignorance of the workings of sinister thoughts and motions of the dark hand had allowed the cold to retain a foothold in this realm. My victory over the machinations of the arctic powers was for naught, for I had doomed my world to an eternal blight of cold, a blackened Stygian footstep scarring the earth.
It was in this moment, when I was sure that my very sanity was beholden as well to this granite-like block of essence, that my salvation visited itself upon me. The sun, which had brought forth the shadows, suddenly attended to the ice-block. I watched in morbid fascination as the bright power of Apollo began to consume the essence, transforming it back to the nothing from which it came.
My world was saved and made whole again. The earth had forgiven my transgressions on this day, but I knew deep in my soul, it would never, ever forget.
Seuss:
Do you like this thread? It’s spam!
I do not like it Spam-I-am!
I must admit it’s made me chuckle
Out loud although I’m forced to buckle
Because this subject does not jibe
Folks will complain, and unsubscribe.
A tiny post, dry ice for free
Has got us on a writing spree.
I so do hate to be a cop
But this thread has got to stop!
Do you like this thread? It’s spam!
I cannot like it Spam-I-am!
I will not read it in the house
I will not click it with my mouse
I will delete it from my box
I will not find it with Firefox.
So as the leader of the Guild
Do consider this thread killed
But it’s so fun I can’t resist
Posting my own version to the list!
A story of the Neon Guild with cabin fever.