Wednesday, August 13, 2003
"Enough!", I cried, displaying my reddened cheeks as a sign of weakness. Mugh perceived and settled to the floor; his coarse laughter removed my boldness and a coat of paint, cheaper than sandpaper, perhaps. "Enough!" he screamed. Verification of my previous entreatment left me withered and fruitless. I yodeled angrily in a two-tone melliobaise, to which he gave me the Third Finger. Massaging my buttocks I arose to my full height, knowing the effect it had on women. Being male he had me arrested, shaved and flung into gaol. Being assaulted daily and nightly by prissy English types, I planned my escape with the utmost secrecy. Night after night I lay in that forsaken hell-hole, whittiling fondly-remembered childhood authority figures from the soft wooden bars of the window. When the bars were of matchstick width, I sung forbidden Bravainian hymms of such a precise frequency as to shatter each bar at 1 third of the length from the base and 1 fourth from the top, removing an exact 2/3 sixteenths of the shaft. It was not enough, and digging deep into my regrettable atonal knowledge I managed a hideous Ego-Tostenfrul Diverse Litany which removed the entire masonry surround of the window, door and the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, open to the public on weekdays. Such a French disaster drew the guards and the constabulary of gay Paree, who were noticably shorter due to arriving at such a speed that their footwear burned to a series of crispy husks, as well as being short gits. "Holy moo", said one; I grasped the opportunity with all my strength and shook it by it's scrawny feathered neck. Alas! they were armed; my having feet was to my advantage, and I kicked them thrice to a man in their sock-puppets and shunted my withered frame at rocket-speeds through the nearest valet service, luckily in Malta. Being 30,000 miles from my point of origin did unspeakable logistical mishaps to my sock-puppet and once again I was forced to re-align myself against the nearest Volvo Esperance, 34,050 miles away in Roppongi, Japan, famous for speciality yakitori and blatant xenophobia.
Thursday, July 03, 2003
Bedtime Storee by BLENT
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No. 1: What is JUGGALO?
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What is JUGGALO? JUGGLE it?? can it see through the wall or does it see though?
why does JUGGALO see fit? or does his feet too big for his boots! HAH! Spit of the grave!
See out of window, but see out of the door? No eye is too big for it, JUGGALO? Here you r mate but dont keep!?!
It is time, GOOD NIGHT JUGGALO. Do not see head on your way. It is bumped and then pain.
GOOD NIGHT!
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No. 1: What is JUGGALO?
-------------------------------
What is JUGGALO? JUGGLE it?? can it see through the wall or does it see though?
why does JUGGALO see fit? or does his feet too big for his boots! HAH! Spit of the grave!
See out of window, but see out of the door? No eye is too big for it, JUGGALO? Here you r mate but dont keep!?!
It is time, GOOD NIGHT JUGGALO. Do not see head on your way. It is bumped and then pain.
GOOD NIGHT!
The Cauterized Wounds of Predictable Doom
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A thought had struck me previously as I lay on my bed, picking weevils out of biscuits which a "pink sailor" had flung over my threshold in fits of aquatic abandon. I could not suppress it not matter how much pressure I applied to my temples with spoons held between bottled fingerbones. It was only 5 farthings! The audacity of the salesman threatened to chase the last remaining vestige of my tightly-held and lavishly-appointed sanity into the theoretical "second" panel of popular 80's cartoon strip the Far Side. Even now I was feeling warmheaded. Removing a family of Italians from beneath the mattress may have helped; I later regretted scalping them and drying their skins, but it paid for bushels. I stood, whispering obscenities into the night. No reply. Then; a rap on the door, followed by free-associative poetry. Displeased and aroused, I threw a small coin through the mailbox with such force I flew backwards and broke a Siamese joint, as well as the dog. The door opened without incident. A man entered; "Mail for you, sir," he espoused with a tip 'o his hat, which caused the dog to break in two. I chose the head end. Rising to my feet (I was 1'3", after all) I held out my hand. He thrust the mail into it; a coin which had been lodged in his forehead flew loose, killing the head end. My last dog for two months! Infuriated, I pointed this out in the politest way I knew. Mistranslating my semaphore he fainted and died; causing hideous stench and Italian food. With the morning's pleasantries drawing to a close,
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A thought had struck me previously as I lay on my bed, picking weevils out of biscuits which a "pink sailor" had flung over my threshold in fits of aquatic abandon. I could not suppress it not matter how much pressure I applied to my temples with spoons held between bottled fingerbones. It was only 5 farthings! The audacity of the salesman threatened to chase the last remaining vestige of my tightly-held and lavishly-appointed sanity into the theoretical "second" panel of popular 80's cartoon strip the Far Side. Even now I was feeling warmheaded. Removing a family of Italians from beneath the mattress may have helped; I later regretted scalping them and drying their skins, but it paid for bushels. I stood, whispering obscenities into the night. No reply. Then; a rap on the door, followed by free-associative poetry. Displeased and aroused, I threw a small coin through the mailbox with such force I flew backwards and broke a Siamese joint, as well as the dog. The door opened without incident. A man entered; "Mail for you, sir," he espoused with a tip 'o his hat, which caused the dog to break in two. I chose the head end. Rising to my feet (I was 1'3", after all) I held out my hand. He thrust the mail into it; a coin which had been lodged in his forehead flew loose, killing the head end. My last dog for two months! Infuriated, I pointed this out in the politest way I knew. Mistranslating my semaphore he fainted and died; causing hideous stench and Italian food. With the morning's pleasantries drawing to a close,
Wednesday, June 11, 2003
"Ha!" said I, grinning broadly from ear to jaw. The doctor appeared unpleased with this configuration. I altered it to a more pleasing form, choosing Left Nostril-to-Tonsil over the wildly famous Teeth via Femur, made popular in Paris. He handed me a carver's apron, saying "do as you will". I did; again he was displeased, removing his limbs from the bridge strut. "Once again sir, who are ye to be knocking at such an early hour?" His cheerful demeanor diminished and shrunk, he placed it in a snuff-lined box of finest teak. I danced wildly and swung a couple of blows.
"I am merely your humple student, seeking priceless blueprints to the 3rd Prototype!"
His ears pricked at 'humple'; had I passed the test? His countenance became like thunder; clearing to light showers with brisk winds, north by nor'east. His meteorlogical display struck me sideways; beside myself, I ambled horizontally until I was whole. Far off, strains of Flemish piano were carried northward, causing famine. I knew I should speak, I was tiring rapidly.
"I apologize for my mistake, I have a Flemish cold. Will you give me entry?"
He did so, and pinning me to the divan with his middle fingers his ears pricked again. I knew I had lost this round. I resolved to continue my former address in an attempt to confuse him.
"I am merely your humple student, seeking priceless blueprints to the 3rd Prototype!"
Once more, his ears pricked. Noting this in my diary, I countered his grasp with a Lurhmann Spin, scattering the furniture into the fireplace.
He straightened and removed his codpiece. "Well done; ye have proved your formula!" His attempt at a pirouette was thwarted by gravity; I laughed and was rewarded with beatings about the laivess-fairre (see prgp. 8).
We adjourned to his invention room; never before have I been assaulted by such mechanical imagery! Opening my eyes was positively worse; I slumped into the corner, an impossible configuration which again displeased the doctor, who yawned in disgust.
TO BE CONTINUED
"I am merely your humple student, seeking priceless blueprints to the 3rd Prototype!"
His ears pricked at 'humple'; had I passed the test? His countenance became like thunder; clearing to light showers with brisk winds, north by nor'east. His meteorlogical display struck me sideways; beside myself, I ambled horizontally until I was whole. Far off, strains of Flemish piano were carried northward, causing famine. I knew I should speak, I was tiring rapidly.
"I apologize for my mistake, I have a Flemish cold. Will you give me entry?"
He did so, and pinning me to the divan with his middle fingers his ears pricked again. I knew I had lost this round. I resolved to continue my former address in an attempt to confuse him.
"I am merely your humple student, seeking priceless blueprints to the 3rd Prototype!"
Once more, his ears pricked. Noting this in my diary, I countered his grasp with a Lurhmann Spin, scattering the furniture into the fireplace.
He straightened and removed his codpiece. "Well done; ye have proved your formula!" His attempt at a pirouette was thwarted by gravity; I laughed and was rewarded with beatings about the laivess-fairre (see prgp. 8).
We adjourned to his invention room; never before have I been assaulted by such mechanical imagery! Opening my eyes was positively worse; I slumped into the corner, an impossible configuration which again displeased the doctor, who yawned in disgust.
TO BE CONTINUED
KRIPPENDORF KRONIKLES.. VOL 3:
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(In previous episodes our protagonist has attempted an audience with Dr. Whan twice without success, hoping to wrangle his Third Prototype from his dying lips with vigour, love and cutlery. However, the notoriously tetchy doctor has other plans, as Krippendorf will begin to realise.)
"Two-hundred years have I waxed and waned to ascertain his position", he said, as he writhed viciously. I managed to stop his writhing by unplugging the cord, and he was greatly displeased; his Favourite Jam Machine! Alas, he had another, Plum and Mango Petit. "What is Mango Petit?" I asked, and was rewarded with a framed photograph of an iron teat, at which I chuckled truthfully. Pursing his lips in the manner of the Miroquis he managed to spit at a passing horse; it was enough, its back broke.
"A dried and juiceless variety, it must be said."
At this my brow furrowed heavily; I was forced to my knees by the lonesome breeze, blowing north by nor'east. Words formed at my lips were hesitant, a violent shove gave them breath.
"A veiled insult?"
"No, a fruit." He began a modern interpretation of Finley's Revenge. I applauded loudly and was shushed.
"Do not presume to shush me." I was his guest, after all. At this I was shushed with such violent force that all four of my toes broke at the Indian joint; an incident not seen since 10 years ago behind the stands.
Naturally incensed, I blew my nose in disgust and made to leave. My host pursed his lips once more; seeing my chance I leapt for the window, forgetting my altitude; alas! five storeys and a punctured third lung. His parting words rang in my ears as I fled, "Grarrgh uhrg grahhh". I knew I would not forget these words for the rest of my life. I resolved to beat him about the sweetbreads with bouillebase upon our next meeting, which I knew would be our last...
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(In previous episodes our protagonist has attempted an audience with Dr. Whan twice without success, hoping to wrangle his Third Prototype from his dying lips with vigour, love and cutlery. However, the notoriously tetchy doctor has other plans, as Krippendorf will begin to realise.)
"Two-hundred years have I waxed and waned to ascertain his position", he said, as he writhed viciously. I managed to stop his writhing by unplugging the cord, and he was greatly displeased; his Favourite Jam Machine! Alas, he had another, Plum and Mango Petit. "What is Mango Petit?" I asked, and was rewarded with a framed photograph of an iron teat, at which I chuckled truthfully. Pursing his lips in the manner of the Miroquis he managed to spit at a passing horse; it was enough, its back broke.
"A dried and juiceless variety, it must be said."
At this my brow furrowed heavily; I was forced to my knees by the lonesome breeze, blowing north by nor'east. Words formed at my lips were hesitant, a violent shove gave them breath.
"A veiled insult?"
"No, a fruit." He began a modern interpretation of Finley's Revenge. I applauded loudly and was shushed.
"Do not presume to shush me." I was his guest, after all. At this I was shushed with such violent force that all four of my toes broke at the Indian joint; an incident not seen since 10 years ago behind the stands.
Naturally incensed, I blew my nose in disgust and made to leave. My host pursed his lips once more; seeing my chance I leapt for the window, forgetting my altitude; alas! five storeys and a punctured third lung. His parting words rang in my ears as I fled, "Grarrgh uhrg grahhh". I knew I would not forget these words for the rest of my life. I resolved to beat him about the sweetbreads with bouillebase upon our next meeting, which I knew would be our last...
