PDHugh Bach's Collateral|
[Most Recent Entries]
Below are the 14 most recent journal entries recorded in
|Sunday, March 6th, 2005|
CRYOPIMP sketch draft
cryopimp, a PDHugh Bach Production
Narrator: (zooms to nerd getting picked on at the quad with people pointing at him) Have you ever been called a loser, nerd, party pooper, loner or the increasingly disturbing.. (flashes scene of guy with nice smile. a girl walks away, obscuring the camera and then revealing the guy with a nice tortured smile) nice guy or nice girl? Do you get shuffled aside because you're a minority or ignored because you're boringly white? (flash bush pic with x and buzzer sound) Don't you wish Bush was no longer president? (show tombstone) Do you feel that dying forever is bad and (someone pops up behind tombstone happy) being alive is pretty neat, except for the fact that your (he's sad now) life sucks?
(zooms to Narrator with shiny, nearly fake-looking face speaking): Boy have we the solution for you! (zooms to logo) Be part of Cryopimp and in what may seem to be hours, you will have dozens of suitors kissing your ass, and paying for it! Experts predict that after Cryopimp, you'll be loved by all nations and races. Here's how it works. First you will be evaluated for your ideal setting. (girl holding calculator shying away from people going into a dark room and glowing) You might have a thing for intelligent women, shy and unbelievably nice women.. women who glow in the dark? (zooms to donkey) Maybe you're a very devout democrat. (anime?) Maybe you want an affordable billion pixel monitor, or the ability to fly. The sky's the limit, or is it (duh duh duh). Secondly, you will be frozen with our unpatented Cryofreeze method. We have a lifetime guarantee that you will be safely frozen. Third, we will wait until your proper conditions are met and technology permitting, thaw you out so you can enjoy your paradise. Call 1-800-CRY-PIMP. That's 1-800-CRY-PIMP. Order today and you'll get a free lot at our own Storage subsidary, the (zooms in and out dizzyingly of a storage facility) Cryo-lot. That's a thousand cubic feet to store anything you'd want. Cryopimp, it's the future,... tomorrow.
(during credit rolls) Warning!: (zooms to people in the stages of freezage) side effects may include vomiting, anachronistic delusions, post-apocalyptic exposure, nerve malfunctions, nostalgia, death, and being followed by a team of scientists and historians everywhere you go.
|Tuesday, December 14th, 2004|
boy, a plagiarism
girl anachronism boy, a plagiarism
you can tell / you can tell
from the scars on my arms / from the bars in this yarn
and cracks in my hips / and the rises and the dips
and the dents in my car / and I'm not a rock star
and the blisters on my lips / and the changes in the scripts
that i'm not the carefullest of girls / that I'm not the carefullest of boys
you can tell / you can tell
from the glass on the floor / from this rhyme you'll abhor
and the strings that're breaking / and the lyrics I am making
and i keep on breaking more / and I keep on making more
and it looks like i am shaking / and I am certainly faking
but it's just the temperature / but the audience isn't sure
and then again / and then again
if it were any colder i could disengage / if it were in a folder, you could turn the page
if i were any older i would act my age / if I were any bolder I'd take up center stage
but i dont think that youd believe me / but I will not be well received, see
it's / it's
not / not
the / the
way / way
i'm / they
meant / wrote it
to / to
be / be
it's just the way the operation made me / it's just today the aspiration bade me
and you can tell /and you can tell
from the state of my room / from my lack of costume
that they let me out too soon / that I probably don't groom
and the pills that i ate / and my rhymes I create
came a couple years too late / I forgot to conjugate
and ive got some issues to work through / and you've got some tissues to plow through
there i go again / there I go again
pretending to be you / recommending my debut
make-believing / not conceiving
that i have a soul beneath the surface / that their script has an actual purpose
trying to convince you / trying to convince you
it was accidentally on purpose / it was just a bunch of shouts and curses
i am not so serious / i am not delirious
this passion is a plagiarism / my fashion is a plagiarism
i might join your century / At the penitentiary
but only on a rare occasion / I generate a new sensation
i was taken out / I was taken out
before the labor pains set in and now / before big bubba would join in and now
behold the world's worst accident / behold the dresden dolls resent
i am the girl anachronism / that I am the boy plagiarism
and you can tell / and you can tell
by the red in my eyes / by my addition of pies
and the bruises on my thighs / and new york cheesecake surprise
and the knots in my hair / and une petit eclair
and the bathtub full of flies / and the bread that will rise
that i'm not right now at all / that I'm not right now at all
there i go again / there I go again
pretending that i'll fall / hoping you'll eat it all
don't call the doctors / don't call the proctors
cause they've seen it all before / cause they've seen it all before
they'll say just / they'll say just
let / let
her / him
crash / mash
and / and
burn / churn
she'll learn / he'll learn
the attention just encourages her / that hypertension will result for sure
and you can tell / and you can tell
from the full-body cast / from the time that has surpassed
that i'm sorry that i asked / that I'm sorry this would last
though you did everything you could / though you did everything you could
(like any decent person would) / (like any decent rock star would)
but i might be catching so don't touch / but i'm just not patching all that much
you'll start believing youre / you'll start receiving odd
immune to gravity and stuff / rants of depravity and stuff
don't get me wet / they won't be set
because the bandages will all come off / because i'm lazy and don't care enough
and you can tell / and you can tell
from the smoke at the stake / from poking at this fake
that the current state is critical / its debate is hypocritical
well it is the little things, for instance: /I'm about to say something in past tense:
in the time it takes to break it /in the time it took to get naked
she can make up ten excuses: / he certainly confused us:
please excuse her for the day, / it was before that if you may,
its just the way the medication makes her.../ about the path towards dedication it were...
i dont necessarily believe /i don't think you will find and receive
there is a cure for this / a verse from the Cure in this
so i might join your century / find the right penitentiary
but only as a doubtful guest / there is no room to be depressed
i was too precarious / i must stay gregarious
removed as a caesarian / bubba could find a chance to pin
behold the worlds worst accident / behold the dresden dolls resent
I AM THE GIRL ANACHRONISM / THAT I AM THE BOY PLAGIARISM
|Wednesday, July 21st, 2004|
A company that targets hopeless people in hopes of getting them to agree to being cryogenically frozen so they'll be like, exotic people from another place and time so chicks would dig them. The tale of one who goes through such a life-transforming process and finds people in the future rather disturbing off. Twisted and turned the way modern society would tend to pull people towards, except in a manner as extreme as possible.
|Saturday, July 17th, 2004|
The Fan Club
On a pedestal, these words appear: "Ozymandias, King of Rock. Be there at Destiny Auditorium". Next to these words on the same sheet of paper is a photo of a very constipated face and next to this was a photo of a pair of hands choking a microphone. Underneath the words and face, someone scribbled "Big Brother is Watching". Underneath that, someone scribbled "but little brother is watching Big Brother watch". Under that is "You guys are wankers". "No, you're a wanker". "Big Brother is behind you."
Sulia Socks did not notice any of the words above. She did, though, reach an arm out to pull on the lever on the pedestal on which these words appear. She does not know that the last of the statements on the pedestal was true. It is, although it does not pertain to Sulia Socks' big brother. She didn't really notice the lever on the pedestal either. Soon, she was out, taking her dark denim backpack with the flowers painted on it with her. Two minutes afterwards, a brunette used the same stall, and for every prime number afterwards, give or take a couple of numbers per prime number, that she was to excrete a load of bacteria and naturally processed foods, a very constipated face with a set of hands choking a microphone will flash in her mind.
Sulia Socks entered the bustling atmosphere which was Gettysburg High School, which most people shortened to "Get High". Instantly, she registered on her brainstem, the boy in the corner of the walkway. He was waiting for people to stop being so bustling so he could make way to his locker without accidentally bumping into people, which would lead to awkward exclamations like "excuse me" or "sorry", which he has read somewhere, just didn't feel right when said in certain circumstances, like "well, excuse me for being a rich bastard and excuse you for not being one" or "You're gonna die now, sorry", although he didn't think it worth his time to sort out when those exclamations should be impolite nor polite. He does know that once upon a time, great pressure has been applied to his gut for saying "excuse me", although he used to get a great deal of pressure applied to many areas of his body. Either way, a gut feeling was keeping this boy at bay and waiting patiently at the corner of the walkway. Not all parts of Sulia Socks' brain knew all of this concerning the boy at the time. If one were to ask her what she thought about this boy, she honestly couldn't come up with a response she felt was valid. Roughly ten years later, while reclining on a sofa, someone who was trained to look highly trained would sit still, thus providing a sounding board for Sulias' thoughts. This person who was trained to look highly trained was about to enter "baloney" for a section of madlibs. Sulia would talk about her work which would soon own a Nobel Peace Prize, although she didn't know it at the moment. Out of the blue, she started "Oh, once at Gettysburg High School, I spent about twenty minutes worrying about the fate of this boy down the hall, who most surely has been psychologically damaged beyond repair by bullies since early childhood, the social inhibitions of which, by now, would have made him a freelancing programmer who's probably also an occasional nature-loving hippie." Neither Sulia nor the trained person knew that this freelancing programmer and occasional nature-loving hippie was on the same reclining sofa one hundred and forty one filled out mad libs ago.
Sulias' brainstem started keeping secrets from her at the age of four. Sulia, sitting on a swing, spotted an unhappy face sitting on a rotund body one hundred and forty one meters away. At an early age, the world was full of faces. Faces for Sulia. Catalyzed by a concise and accurate system of facial expressions to which her parents adamantly, although unconsciously, followed, Sulia was a masterful interpreter of the meaning of facial expressions at an early age. This unhappy face with the space between the eyebrows wrinkled which was not a prime number of meters away from her was picked up by her brainstem, which decided to act upon it, although her brainstem deftly and purposefully refused to provide, for the rest of her brain, a logically calibrated justification for her next action. Sulia hopped off the swing, took a bright red bucket of sand from the sand-box and in one hundred forty one seconds, offered it to the owner of the unhappy face. The grey material behind the face took this to be a threat and ran away, or rather, ordered the rapid locomotion of a great deal of folds of fat which slapped against each other. Two feet away was a piece of paper with the words "Howard Galt Jeans". She noticed the face on the same sheet of paper next to those words, which was smiling. Or attempting to. The flat lips, barring teeth, and the ridges of the cheeks, which weren't all that deep gave it away. It wasn't a smile to Sulia. Her brainstem told her it was a threat to everyone and somehow, but certainly linked to the unhappy face.
Ten years later, Sulia did volunteer work at the library, which was already a treasure trove to her. She knew all its nooks and crannies and already did unsolicited bookkeeping, reshelving when a misplaced book caught her eye. As staff, Sulia had access to new tasks. One of these was discarding old books. An old lady with hideous mascara, at least in Donyas' opinion, briefed Sulia about how to check the integrity of the binding, where all the copyrights are likely to be found, and how to use the labeling machine. Armed with the intimidating Dynamito Motorized Labeler, Sulia, with an equally matched integrity of will, was unleashed at the books. "Parry Hotter, that's new. National Geographic, Millenium edition, new. New England Wiccan Journal, copyrighted 1870, hmm...", Sulia thought, flipping through the text. "What if some anthropologist needed to know the diet of Wiccans, perhaps in order to confirm valuable truths of certain alternative lifestyles? What if this book had just the information this poor anthropologist was looking for? I can't just throw this away, it being a collection of facts that people, perhaps over many years of struggles in an isolated environment, ostracized by society, have fought to preserve." Each ancient treasure trove of secrets and hard-earned information pummelled Sulias' integrity of will, in stark contrast to the Dynamito Labeler, which was holding nicely. "I hate labelers.", Sulia thought. *plat*, went a discarded sticker on a brittle collection of poems by a colored person in the eighteenth century. "I... I hate labels", she concluded. Sulias' brainstem, when lying to Sulias' other brain parts, would cover its tracks with an intense distaste for labels. It was getting a bit lazy in masking its intentions. Next, Sulias' brainstem would coax her into stashing all the books she labeled as discarded in a bush not far away from the library, and eventually, mailing books to where she feels they'd be important contributions like the anthropology department at a nearby university and an academy of ethics a few states away.
A year later, shortly after Sulias' brainstem registered the boy in the corner of the hall, she had a seat in Contemporary English, where she sat at the back in case those with differently advantaged eyes wanted a better view of the board. Whipped open "Grainger Euripides Bacchus" in an attempt to get engrossed. This attempt worked as Grainger Euripides Bacchus is a very engrossing work. Well, it worked for ten minutes. In ten minutes, some frills registered in her periphial vision. All her attention was focused on that which was connected and that which was connected to that which was connected to the frills, despite her pupils and retina being aligned at Grainger Euripides Bach. Since she's been doing this with her eyes at the age of four, Sulia is one of the top one hundred fifty people who has ever lived with the most nerves and working rods and cones on the edges of the back of her eye. One hundred forty first on the list, to be precise. The frills was connected to a neck, a rather slender one, connected to a facial expression. Was it solemn? Modest? Moody? Sulia couldn't tell and this annoyed her. The mind within the head connected to the slender neck connected to the frills was thinking "I wonder if this is the facial arrangement which is the most aesthetically pleasing". Also attached to the neck was a flowing cape, which Sulia noticed in between guessing that the facial expression was modest and guessing that it be moody.
Sulia did what any person with an enthusiastic and highly politically charged brainstem would do. She shared Grainger Euripides Bacchus with this pensive-looking soul. The pensive looking soul dropped her eyes towards the work of excellence and felt really warm inside as even the cover of Grainger Euripides Bacchus could inspire even the most remotely intellectual of persons to internally jump for joy in an epiphany of pride of the type shared by those lacking in differently abled mental abilities. This showed up as a slight blush on the one wearing frills, who immediately looked upwards and continued her streak of appearing as though she was born with a proclivity in juggling the many muscles of her face in such a manner as to suggest noble pensiveness. Sulia was confused at these mixed messages on the face of the one with frills. Ones' periphial vision can only do so much anyway. As she was thinking of a way to ask the frilled lady about her ways in a nonintrusive manner, Mr. O' Shaugnessy interrupted the class about some pressing news concerning the recently widening dry patch of grass on his lawn which needed watering, the reparations of which he was willing to provide extra credit. Sulia peeked at the unwavering condition of the face of the one with frills now and then. O'Shaugnessy drifted between talking about home repairs and the civil war, a combination of topics which passes the time quickly. Soon, class was over, and Sulia was about to introduce herself in a very non-intrusive manner, except for the fact that a set of frills and cape was exiting the class at the precise velicity which would maximize the ability of the cape to flow gracefully.
As there were ten minutes of break in between American History, which just ended, till French, Sulia decided to pursue the frills and the cape, or rather, the owner of the cape and frills. Not to mention, she had justify the time spent containing that perfect introductory sentence in her head for so long. Round this last bend, she could hear a lively conversation, and not being the type to rudely intrude, she hid behind the bend, her brainstem gathering and organizing precious tidbits of information which it would use later on to produce constructs which would in turn, alter the thinking patterns of the world, especially in a social context:
"Oh, I found the forms where you can get a ten percent discount to Don Con 2002"
"Do you think my frills look too 1412?"
"I do believe you're a few paces off from the Mansfeld strut. I mean, you do want your cape to flow with folds with the golden ratio?"
"No no no! Your nose is arched too highly. You seem full of contempt."
"Yes, I do believe I have a copy of the Picture of Durian Yellow."
"The problem is you're playing the clarinet correctly."
Just then, Sulia decided to blend in and approached the bend. What a sight to behold! Dark flowing capes, frills, spiked hair, clarinets and aesthetically pleasing countenances galore. What Sulia almost failed to notice was that the conversation died down completely by the time she had a good view of them all. This is because the persons behind the frills had practiced nearly to perfection, the way in which a conversation could wither away into nothingness without anyone noticing. This is achieved through watching a video entitled "conversation stopping techniques" included on a free disc given out during Don Con, short for the "Donya Solo Convention" in which there are a great many examples of conversations halting in a nearly unnoticeable manner, such as right as the bus arrives at a bus stop or as always, right before something every embarrassing is said such as "And that's why my pants were on fire". Sulia said her perfect introductory sentence to no one in particular and realized that the peculiar stream of conversation oddly ceased to exist. Now, the intimidating view of so many capes, frills, spiked hair and clarinets would provoke the average citizen into running away in embarrassment, but Sulias' brainstem long ago started repressing these urges. Roughly ten years later, Sulia would spend ten straight hours running away in sheer embarrassment from nothing in particular and would feel much better afterwards. For now, Sulia was about to raise a friendly hand in a friendly gesture, to which she was surrounded by the sight of a great tumult of flowing robes, perfectly oscillating at 141 beats per minute, creating rivults and curves, to which the ovals made by completing the curves would fit perfectly inside golden rectangles. The capes all settled and soon, was all she could see of what were formerly capes, spiked hair, frills and clarinets, were a collection of settling capes. With their capes outlining their figures which were hunched by the knee, drawing the cape with their right forearms, the members of this peculiar group seemed wonderfully purposeful in shielding theirselves with their cape, but the bell rung just as Sulia was about to ponder upon the reason they would have for shielding themselves with capes.
A great failure this has been for Sulias' brainstem, which was unable to fathom the intricate workings of this clique. Although this was such a great failure, Sulias' brainstem decided to organize its memory in a stream of denial, which was usually an untravelled route in Sulias' neural expressway so it took rather a while to squeeze through. In fact, it would be nearly a week before she would notice the social group defined by its abundance in frills, flowing capes, spiked hair and clarinets since the route of denial was so slow to accept this new influx of information. Once it did, it would have increased the neural pathway of denial in Sulias' brain by a factor of three, and ever since, which is about thrice, whenever something passes through the neural pathway of denial in Sulias' brain, it would bring back memories of dark flowing capes, frills, spiked hair and clarinets.
While Sulia was processing this information, nearly every member of the said cult at Get High used the lavatory on which someone scribbled "Big Brother is behind you". For one of the members of the said cult, this scribbled statement is actually true. Her name is Tanya. She was once a poor pauper girl and was rejected by a prince with too many vowels in his name. Later in life, she'll grow up to be a most wonderful, noble, refined and prestigious princess. The same prince, whose name will not be mentioned because it would vex some readers who will attempt and fail to sound it out in their heads, will fall head over heels for the princess and... This is not Tanyas' story. She will most likely never again be mentioned in an Otyugh Story. On the other hand, her big brother might.
|Friday, July 2nd, 2004|
Ann Rinds' Store
"I'll have it for sixty-five nods then", says the long haired hippie, in an attempt to barter with the shopkeeper who happens to be Ann Rind. "It ez volly to dizregard ze evidenz phrovided by yur senses!", Ann Rind responds, speaking with a perfect Russian accent. "zis zign makes ze price blain and cleahr. A yjar of biickled feet khost zeventy and a haf nodz." The long-haired dude gives up and starts nodding. On the thirtieth nod, the shopkeeper raps "Zoo that last von again! Unless my eyes betchray me, and they never do, I mean, just look at my eyes. Their eagle-like piercing radiance certainly eemply zat they're backed vy vormidable eentellect and perceptive abilities. Unless my eyes betchray me, your chin deed not touch yoor neck on zat las tsarry atteempt of a nod". While vigorously nodding, the hippie mutters "I don't have time for this.... wait, actually, I do. I'm too free-loving to not have time." and smiles at this.
Nods are the currency of Stag Nation, wherever it is accepted. So really, nods could at some time, not be accepted anywhere. That is not the case at the moment, as the residents of Stag Nation have nodded away transactions peacefully for ages. Or so I've been told. By a very trustable source! That some he once knew speculated upon this fact. Ahem. I think the long haired hippie will finish nodding by the time you finish reading this sentence. Ah, here we go.
The hippie finishes nodding. "Dank you. Come again", Ann Rind said with such a brilliant timbre, she almost applauded. The hippie picks up the jar and leaves.
As he leaves the door, Ann Rind lets out another piercing Russianized shriek "Ahrem!". The hippie keeps his smile and his gait. "Iz zeems. No. It ez zertain zat you haf mistaken me for a jyar of biickled feet. Take me bvack!"
The hippie snorts "I'm certain I took the jar because I reached for where I left it."
Ann skorts "I moved the jyar. Now, does the evidence of your zenses not betray your carrying me? Vat iz this if not my voice from the jar?"
The hippie skoffs "You could be following me from underneath, you pervert."
"Vor ze zake of ze lack of god! Look zown and see vor yourself!"
"Why? So when I bend over, you can take pictures underneath my billowing kilt?"
"Zoo I look like ze type off person who'd do zat? I mean, look at my piercing eyes"
The hippie keeps his gaze, smile, and direction of his gaze. "Someone with eyes that could discern anything, perhaps with a photographic memory behind them? You are a pervert."
"Kant you just axume eetizz me?"
"When you axume, you make an ax out of you and me"
Today is a wonderful day to be out in Stag Nation. Flowers are blooming. At least the non-sentient ones are. Some of the sentient ones aren't blooming, because the bees annoy them. They're rare though, because avoiding bees leads to lack of pollination. Lack of pollination leads to lack of seeds being fertilized. Lack of seeds being fertilized leads to this particular type of flower not bursting open violently, spewing its seeds everywhere. Lack of bursting open violently, spewing seeds everywhere leads to this particular type of flower being rare. Were I writing a bible, the cynics would cut out the sentence before this one as the prime example of a curiously seemingly blatantly contradictory statement. I'm trying my best to gather broad appeal here. Back to today, a wonderful day. A road cuts through a plain of brilliant rolling green, spotted by mushrooms, flowers and a convenience store, and a spiral. Each loop of the spiral is precisely ten feet away from the previous loop. There are currently three loops in the spiral, the path of which sparkles when the plain rolled. At one end of the spiral is a convenience store. A very healthy set of vines is achieving victory over a side of the store, plowing through flaky paint and wood at the speed of the pollination of flowers. Several ladybugs and black beetles with delicate wings reside in these vines. On the other end of the spiral is a hippie with long hair, wearing a kilt, carrying a hurricane lamp which is, to the tactile senses, nearly identical to jars of pickled feet, sold at a convenience store three loops of a spiral away. The hippie noticed the flowers, even the sentient ones, the brilliant rolling plains, mushrooms, the vines on the side of the convenience store and even the ladybugs and beetles, who are currently auctioning off individual vines in which to reside at only a few dozen nods apiece. The contents of the hurricane lamp failed to notice the sentient flowers, ladybugs, rolling plains, but she did notice the vines creeping up her store. And the mushrooms. And the cow and silly but aesthetically pleasing man with the frills beside the mushrooms. More specifically, the smiling cow, doing ballet and man, who is trying to smoke a mushroom in a ridiculous, but aesthetically pleasing performance.
Ann Rind realises she is fighting a losing battle. She realises that her straightforward nearly one-dimensional approach at justifying her needs simply can't be grasped by long-haired hippies with kilts with roundabout methods. She realizes this as the fiftieth loop of the spiral is forming. Now, as the fifty-first loop is forming, she conforms to the hippies' conditions. The spiral stops forming and the path of a very specific hurricane lamp is that of a line. This line happens to be the shortest distance between two points, one being the convenience store and the other being the end of an impressive sparkling spiral. At every other loop they pass, the hippie says "who da man?". At every other other loop, a thick Russian accent exclaims "You ze man".
Off in the distance, a cow attempts to jump over the moon, but only succeeds, on the fiftieth try, in jumping on a man, whose appearance has changed because either this text has been converted into a graphic novel and the artist is incompetent, or because ones' opinion of that which is aesthetically pleasing is temperamental, but this is still the same man since he's still trying to smoke a mushroom, despite being underneath a cow. Were that cow to actually jump on the moon, he would probably pass by an amateur astronaut, barely in orbit, and about to mistakenly plug a fuel line into the oxygen tank because he has an irrational fear of spirals. He will soon be relinquished of this fear in fifty seconds as by then, his space ship starts to travel on a path, that of a spiral. Someone somewhere not too close by to any of these characters, someone I haven't mentioned until now writes down in a small notebook that an astronaut owes a hippie with long hair for relinquishing his former irrational fear of spirals. Well, okay, not to confuse anyone, but this someone I haven't mentioned is not the author of this long string of text, nor is it any witty fool who has read this who is trying to get credit by copying it down either.
After you have finished reading this long string of letters, or have had this long string of letters read to you, you owe the author a nod, according to trustable sources.
South of Stag Nation lies Stag Desert, in the center of which lies Stag Stadium. Every month, the overly sentient stags of Stag Nation, of which only a small percentage are, gather around in Stag Stadium, speaking of topics, very important topics, sometimes topics who demand that their prescence be adorned with French food. Topics are especially fond of baguettes and brie.
Stag Stadium is the most peculiar construction in Stag Nation. From the sky, it looks like a series of concentric circles, modified for seating, deeper and darker towards the center. Some stags with too much free time on their hands have found that these concentric circles actually encircle the realm and it's only that the markings get less conspicuous. Some stags with even more free time have found that on the nearly exact opposite side of the globe, a minature version of Stag Stadium seems to have formed, although it's mostly collapsed, like a sand castle a few moments after the tide reaches it. Stag Stadium, on the other hand, is perfectly intact. It glistens because it's mostly quartz and hence, is an excellent reflective surface. Abraision by sand and stag fur has made it even more reflective. On the fringes of Stag Stadium, one can find thin, intact pieces of quartz. Some of the actors in Stag Nation take home reflective pieces of quartz to help them practice how best to make an impression not unlike that ducks make when a pie is thrown at them.
Underneath the quartz, you can see pockets of sand here and there, and in between the sand and quartz in a few places, especially towards the center, are what seem to be inscriptions, beetle-like shapes. Some people believe they were the contructors of Stag Stadium and are partially right. Some stags with too much free time believe that the last few beetle-architects of Stag Stadium entombed themselves in the quartz in an effort to guard the secrets of what they believe is an impressive tomb, even for the standards of beetles. Some have ventured underneath the Stag Stadium to search for this treasure, but all have been driven out by the sight of notorious quartz wyrm-holes, through which wyrms sometimes drag their victims and into their lairs where they coerce their victims into games of chess as quartz wyrms are really rather lonely creatures.
Stag Stadium is not one of the natural wonders of the realm because were you to lay in one of its seats, any of its seats, you would directly face a sphere off in the distance, directly above the center of the Stadium, a very certainly unnatural sphere. This sphere is really dark. It's so incomprehensibly insensibly dark, you can easilly make it out in the night sky. Against the bright blue sky, eye contact is absolutely hazardous. Another strange property was that anyone who sat at the center of the stadium would have his or her voice amplified by the sphere. The amplifciation dims gradually as one steps away from the center of the sphere. The most important topics are spoken close to the center of the stadium where everyone elsewhere in the stadium can hear them. Caterers are always nearby and ready, if ever the topics have sudden cravings for French food.
A group of local bandits live nearby, lurking in a grove of cacti. They're there because every few weeks or so, someone, usually an overly curious scientist with too much free time, enough free time to have built a contraption for doing so, tries to land on the really dark sphere in search of its secrets. The scientists and equipment would light up brightly for a second once they touch the sphere and wilter down where the bandits are ready to plunder the goods. Within their grove of cacti, they have a wide assortment of goggles, machine parts and geeky attire, which they sometimes take to markets to sell to other scientists with too much free time. Often-times, the bandits would recognize the equipment they steal from overly-curious scientists as something they've sold earlier.
What most people don't know is that the Stag Stadium is like a freshnel lens by which I mean it concentrates light, but the difference is that this light is reflected and thanks to the quirky set of rules by which the patron deity contructed the universe containing Stag Nation, Stag Stadium directs all its' reflected light towards the sphere, which, because it's a completely absorbant surface, gets really hot. Once, an assassination attempt was made by shooting an iron arrow at the sphere, which promptly melted, sending a shower of molten iron towards the center of Stag Stadium. For this reason, a canopy has been built over the center of the Stadium.
No one in Stag Nation knows that Stag Stadium was created in mere seconds. Long ago, when the patron deity was creating this realm, shi set up a system by which shi could relay messages to his contractor. Shi thus created this invincible sphere, infinitely lacking in pigment so it wouldn't interfere with the bright template in which the patron deity would paint the land. Shi would relay her messages on a microphone, an oblong box with sides of the ratio 1:4:9, which fit perfectly on the crack on hir butt-chin. Once the patron deity of Stag Nation finished building this realm, shi gave an address to hir people, in which hir main purpose was to just stand there and look cool. This included perking up hir immense butt chin, to which the microphone fell off. No one was really paying attention since the patron deitys' attire gave them an impressive view of hir arm-pit hair, which truly is a sight to behold. Shi would be well into the construction of another realm before shi'd notice the box was missing.
As it fell, this microphone imbedded itself on a crack of a turtle shell. The rabbits living in the shell were not too pleased at this and took one of the patron deitys' stray armpit hairs, wrapped it around the microphone, and flung it towards a nearby swamp. Gluck the Crock, who was plucking plenty of poorly planned puns upon unponderable plunderables, upon discovery of the box, drove away all animals within a ten mile radius of the really dark sphere away with her charlatanious chatter. She then proceded to play submarine with it, in which she bobs her head on the surface of the swamp, pretending that her eye is really the window of a submarine and she's looking out at the buoy, an oblong one with the sides of the ratio 1:4:9. The patron deitys' armpit hair got tangled in Cruck the Glocks' foot when Gluck the Crock implored him to stay for a moment. Cruck left shortly after, too offended by Gluck to notice the oblong box. Shortly after, Cruck whiffed away in a puff of nearly perfect logic to which the oblong box fell and found its way on Azazels' head, who got really pissed off and kicked Doniel Socks really hard, but only succeeded in tickling Doniels' ear.
After a few days of more natural Rube-Goldberg-like contraptions, a beetle with a black shell found the oblong box, really just a few feet from the turtle shell in which it began its journey. The beetle decided to carry the oblong box whereever it went. Within a year, the beetle kingdom held a sort of religious reverence for the oblong box, perhaps because of its dark shell, far darker than those of the beetles, and thus, the oblong box began a pilgrimage to all the various religious outposts of the beetles throughout the realm, carried by the beetle who discovered it, who gradually got more annoyed at having to be the one to lug it everywhere.
While on his way to Stag Nation, the annoyed beetle yelled "Coffee break!". Ten seconds later, a faint "Coffee break!" could be heard some distance off. After a coffee break and some trekking, the beetles located the source of this echo, an infinitely dark sphere floating above the land. On the way there, the beetle who discovered the oblong box was gradually more revered by the accompanying beetles until they were right underneath the sphere, when they decided that he was the the messiah of the beetles. Perhaps the answer they'd been seeking all this time to the question "why don't we have wings?" (they only meant this metaphorically) would be answered by the source of the echoes, the sphere. Soon, all the beetles of the realm decided to form such a structure as to bring the messiah as close as possible to what was perhaps the answer. A pyramid of beetles, made of all the able and available beetles was collected rather quickly, due to the religious collective fervor of the beetles. The beetle with the oblong box proceeded to climb up to the top of the pyramid of wingless dark beetles, swaying a bit in the desert wind, until he was right underneath the sphere.
He proceeded to ask "why don't we have wings?" to which the sphere resounded ten times more loudly "why don't we have wings?". This was picked up by the microphone and was amplified ten times more loudly. At about the tenth repetition of this process, the energy generated by the sound coming out of the speakers started to propell the oblong box downwards at high speeds. It struck the desert and imbedded itself some distance underneath the surface. The violence of such an action created such a shockwave to pass through the sphere that the sand underneath the sphere instantly melted, preserving a pattern of the shockwave, a perfect fresnel-like mirror which, due to the quirky laws set by the patron god of this particular universe, reflected a great deal of light towards the sphere. A really loud "WHY DON'T WE HAVE WINGS?" was heard the world over. Following this was the shockwave, which resounded the realm around until it climaxed at the opposite end with a pattern similar to that of Stag Stadium.
This wiped out nearly the entire dark beetle population of the Realm. A couple of house-beetles, who were left behind to do house keeping chores, survived. Only one male beetle was left behind, merely a few minutes old, this beetle was beset with debilitating mutations, an extra set of stags, pair of legs, some tentacles, the usual. One of these mutations was a set of wings, very delicate things. This male beetle would thus become the messiah of future generations of beetles, who did have wings, although they were so fragile as to become rendered useless before mid-life. Over time, a hard carapace evolved over the weak wings, protecting them from the harsh elements of nature.
Gluck the Crock
Gluck the Crock reigns upon a parcel of swamp which lays on the fringe of Otyugh Garden. She enjoys partaking in such crockalicious activities such as creeping upon and catching ducks (for sport, of course), wading in the water while playing with her eyes, pretending as though she were looking through a submarine window dipping up and down, about the waves, and plucking plenty of poorly planned puns upon unponderable plunderables.
Cruck the Glock, does not reign upon a parcel of swamp. A creature of refinement, he does not enjoy the company of puns and especially not the conveyance thereof by those who partake in crockalicious actitivies. Cruck, though, happens to be passing by a parcel of swamp owned by Gluck the Crock. In accordance to Crucks' wishes, I will not narrate his encounter with Gluck the Crock, which may offend his delicate sensibilities when he receives a copy of this script. I will, though, reveal my documentation of Crucks' reaction to the encounter.
HA! Just kidding, I wont............ No, actually, I will. Maybe.
Now, if you have boots nearby, it would be nice if you were to wear them. Well, actually, sneakers would be fine. Heck, sandals would do. UNLESS IF YOU'RE WEARING SOCKS. REPEAT: DO NOT DON SANDALS IF YOU'RE ALREADY WEARING SOCKS.
In some dimension (lets call this the dimension of persons usually without the propensity of not lacking in comprehension, the articulation of magiks), a television set with a power crank on the side was stashed in a trenchcoat. This trenchcoat has the serendipidious ability of turning into a cape when the plot doesn't seem to go anywhere. It's certainly not going anywhere now, so lets take this story back to when the trenchcoat turned itself into a cape, by which I don't mean to literally print out a copy of this and find a magical trenchcoat/cape to stash this in, although if you do, that'd be really cool, cause I'm fond of gratuitious uses of recursion,like mentioning Ouroboros, the serpent which perpetually swallows its tail, out of context, like right now. So in the process of this trenchcoat being turned into a cape, the television with the crank dropped to the ground. The wearer of the cape suddenly had a really strong moment of narccistic self-reflection and felt as though this detail was inconsequential to whatever sequence of events of which this wearer thought of him/herself to be likely to participate. Due to the natural movement of things, this television set found its way to Glucks' parcel of swamp. Actually, I placed it in the swamp. It's just cooler to think that nature were to mimic one of Rube Goldbergs' contraptions like the "The Land Before Time" where that egg literally sees the world before it hatches as though natures' primary concern, though seeming to act as nature acts, was to participate in the transportation of that particular egg. Okay, I'll shut. Gluck found it and wound it until it sounded and Gluck said "confounded!" and on a saggy bog, his fists pounded. A television program started just then.
"Bzzz! ReeeerrroooooDKKzz.... Do you own huge tracks of land? Would you like to build a castle on your huge track of land and watch it sink? Are all guys you meet very friendly to you? Then call this toll-free number right now."
Gluck suddenly had an urge to collect all the large rocks in the area and form a large castle with them on his swamp. Since the television broadcast was held only in the dimension of persons usually without the propensity of not lacking in comprehension, the articulation of magiks, I have no clue why Gluck is collecting rocks right now.
After his encounter with Gluck the Crock, Cruck the Glock thought "I have never in my life met anyone so ill suited to the rather oppresive confines and demands of the natural world. I can only hope that Mr., or Ms/Mrs. Evolution him, or herself finds it in his, or her heart, to open a new, rather large, sharp-edged can of worms, and to enact a scene with the can and Gluck, of which that guy from the Tell-tale Heart would approve, and to stash the remains of Gluck, along with the worms, back in the can. On second thought, the worms deserve better. On third thought..."
Glucks' epiphany: "I no longer find any pleasure in Crockalicious activities. Building a castle is as lacking in crockaliciousness as anything I could think of so lets build one!".
Crucks' epiphany: "Upon inspection, it doesn't seem as though this natural world makes any sense whatsoever, which would mean I'm at fault for attempting to make sense of it. Since I offend its nearly perfect mix of inperfection, it's really I who doesn't belong. I suppose the only way to perfectly resolve this is to imperfectly rid myself of perfection" Cruck disappeared in a whiff of near perfection of an imperfect natural world.
Glucks' second epiphany: "I suppose that anything I do would be defined Crockalicious since I'm a Crock. I want a species-change!". Thus, Gluck the Crock becomes Glucrock, the Cruckglock. Shi (hermaphroditic pronoun) goes on in a mostly non-crockolicious gesture, to complete the castle in the swamp and is now gleefully watching it sink, for the first time.
I hope you found the boots useful. I don't recommend taking them off until the end of the hour as thinking about Cruckglocks may get you wet. It's you know, a psychology thing.
|Wednesday, June 30th, 2004|
Just wrote a few short scripts in the realm of Stag Nation this week. Somewhat proud of them. Introduces a few new characters: Gluck the Crock, Cruck the Glock, an unnamed black beetle, long-haired hippie. They'll be up shortly. For the short script I'm working on now, I'll need the responses that the Amazon makes in Diablo II when you jam the keys on the number pad. I'm asking people, but they're not all that resourceful. Don't have a copy nearby. Hmm... what kind of instrument would a crock play? Some large wind instrument, perhaps. Something to which puns could be easilly derived.
|Wednesday, April 21st, 2004|
i like brit authors: anthro essay about marriage turned sci fi monologue
The ringing sound again. It comes and goes. It has always been with us. Kapu has not returned from gathering wheat from the mill. I have sent three of my husbands in search of him. A week passes and I nearly give up. Kapu is always like this. He's the youngest of my husbands, nearly half my age. Yes, I live in a polyandry. Anyways, Kapu is a restless one. When the work becomes too hard to bear, he takes off on a wild hunting excursion in the savanna. I cannot follow as women are forbidden in the savanna. I am not sure why this is so, but it is so strictly regulated that an expedition is immediately sent to find and kill any women who choose to return. We do not question this. It has always been this way. KAPU!, I shout, and the ringing starts again. This is the longest he's ever been gone. A week. No. More than that.
I tire of waiting and return home. It's quite a home. Comfortable, refreshing, and nourishing. I guess you can call me spoiled. Most women at Lake Tititaca tend to be so. That's because we're a rarity. Yes, I've been told that the women of Tititaca are wonders of the world. I'm not quite sure why. I'm not allowed to travel outside of the lake. I'd be lucky to survive the first step outside of the settlement as a ring of militia surround the lake tightly, commanded to take out any women who dare leave. Leading an anthropological expedition anywhere but here would be out of the question.
I share this spacious abode, tightly thatched with bundles of dry grass with my sister. It's convenient that way because we've been close since birth. We share everything: wardrobes, husbands, cookery. Husbands... I guess you can also call our eternal rut a sororal polygyny. Two wives and countless husbands... Sounds like a group, an Oneidan, sort of. Except not really. No time for intimacy. The males are more like slaves. We're fairly occupied with child breeding. That's the deal. We're here to save humanity. I'll talk about that later. I'm not quite sure of the details, to tell you the truth. This time and place is rather absurd. I'm not even certain what time is, really. A vast river, flowing very slowly at the moment is what time seems to be. That definition is good enough for me.
Kapu? Well, he's out there salvaging from humanity at best, or removing himself from it. I'll miss him if he doesn't return. He has (or had) great cheeks. Cannonballs for calves. Lovely skin. Not even I have Kapus' skin. He consoled me when I was confused, promises me he would discover the secret of the universe for me. Always apt to prove himself worthy of my attention. Not that he needed to. None of the other men, and there are many of them, cares at all what I believe or think. They're all fixated on my productivity, if you know what I mean. If this were a wodabe, I guess he'd be the one I'd marry for love. Not that there's much of an opportunity for love in this world. It's too mechanical. We're like ants, struggling single-mindedly to survive. Humans are scarce. We have to try our best to replenish the population. But there's one catch. They say there are no women outside of Lake Tititaca. That this is the best we have. I've heard great stories of the past. Vast repositories of stone and steel alongside the shores and other waters of the world. The highlights of a great, perhaps universal culture, outlining the coasts as people are dependent upon water and being close to water helps. Well, Lake Tititaca is like that, except instead of water (well, we still have that), our resource is women. Around the fringe of Lake Tititaca is what remains of the past. A guild of salvagers, farmers, and a small military force. A rather puny oasis on the deserted desert that is the rest of the world.
What else is Lake Tititaca? It's a very highly elevated lake, I'll tell you that. High enough that one hears ringing in his ears now and then. High enough that many men who come here for the first time get high-headed and pale. That's what happened to husband # 24. At least I think he's #24
. I lose track after a while. He had to divorce me because he'd get fainting spells while at Tititaca. A bookkeeper near the beach, he used to be. Perhaps the only one, as I have not met another. My favorite type of salvager as books are like doors, the only ones I have to the outside world. I miss him too, my only supplier of books, but it cannot be that he could stay. He'd have fainting spells by the dozen. It was hard for him to leave. Heck, it's hard for anyone to leave us women. Since we're such national treasures, they'd have to leave all their possessions they carried to Tititaca to us. Not even a Hopi divorce, I tell you, well, maybe half of one. They got to keep their unvaluables. Unfortunately, he didn't carry his bookstore along with him to lake Tititaca when we were married. Left only this ancient anthropological book about marriages. And left me with a few tidbits of the past, which I’ll keep forever, or until this river, called time comes to a stop.
I am amazed that men would voluntarily get married to us. It's like being an indentured servant with no pay. If they get divorced, they lose everything, well, all that's valuable. We're decent when we're allowed to be. The standard of living doesn't increase when they get married, but it decreases by 73% when they're divorced. We (the Oneiden-ish collective) get custody of the children, of course. Spousal abuse is punishable by death and they're often tempted because we annoy them to death with our constant jabbering, even though there's forty of them and two of us. Don't ask me why. Women just like talking. And men come and go at a dizzying rate. Hardly a month goes by without another marriage or divorce. It's a serial polygamy, I tell you. Not every man, though, gets to have the privilege of marrying us. There's a group of scientists with Kin diagrams and all that fancy shmancy stuff: all charts and facts and figures used to make sure we're not mingling with our own kin. We're rather endogamous because, although the women are certainly initially descended from ancestors from Lake Tititaca, the men are from all over, but there’s far less than there used to be, or so I’m told. I hear the scientists are there because of Incest taboo, I heard one of my more literate husbands call it. We'll breed deformed children and we can't risk it. Humans are too valuable a resource. Of course, they can't enforce marriages completely. Otherwise, they can't find anyone who'd be willing to marry us.
Ringing again. A musically gifted person told me that it was A flat, whatever that meant. “A flat what?”, I asked. Musicians are weird. Kapu! I see him in the distance! That's not all I see. A horde of men, trollying this great, colorful stone on so many logs, used as rollers. Must have been quite a climb, considering where we are. Kapu abandons his crew as they'll be up here eventually. Kapu runs the rest of the way, and hugs me, his body cold and glistening of sweat. Eyes bulging and short of breath, he tells me he has the secret to the universe. That this colorful rock fell from the sky, bright and burning, that a few days later, he went inside and the secret to the universe presented itself to him. That he rounded up and persuaded scavengers nearby to help present it to the women of Tititaca and here they are. The colorful rock is nearly here. It's not much of a rock. Nearly entirely hollow as there are ripples here and there on its surface, an interesting surface, shiny and malleable. It's large, nearly half the size of my straw-thatched house, but light, as these men, fairly weak from leading a life of scavenging, seem to be at ease with it. Kapu takes my hand and draws me, inside. I reluctantly trot with him, improving my gait as I realize my curiosity is getting the better of me, that I have nothing to lose. It is dark inside the rock. Kapu says he made it come to life once and bangs at the rock in odd places and curses. I take a seat on something shaped like it was meant to be sat upon and some lights flash from within the rock. It began:
"Ahem. May I have your attention, Ladies and Gentlemen? I am Eberhard Lightyear. I am on the Space Shuttle Lightbringer IIV. In less than twenty minutes, life support systems will fail. I better get an honorary Nobel prize or something for this. Too bad I won't make it to the ceremony. I have a short story to tell, starting with me, of course. I used to be happily married in a nuclear family in a monogamous relationship with my beautiful wife. Or at least, I'd better have thought she was beautiful because the plan was I was going to live with her for the rest of my life. Or at least, it was to be nuclear, but we didn't get that far. She was diagnosed with the XXA virus, quite a debilitating disease. Only women could spread this disease, we learned. DNA labs showed that it only bonds to people with a pair of X chromosomes. Spreadable by touch, breath, even intercourse! We discovered it too late. Thanks to the multi-quadrillion dollar intercontinental public transportation act, you can travel from London II to Neotokyo in an hour. XXA spread like the McDonald chain explosion from the 21st century, two centuries back. A week after the first ovaries were found eaten by the virus, a massive survey was inducted, the results of which were that nearly ten percent of the population had it. Massive efforts were made to quarantine the inflicted women, but they were futile, the efforts AND the women, from an evolutionary point of view. My wife was one of them. Men were neatly separated from most of the women and because of the belligerent nature of men, induced from millions of years of evolution, a world-wide civil war erupted. I am glad to be part of this expedition not only because we're here to find a solution to the largest crisis the world has ever seen, but because the flames from this civil war could be easily observed from up here. I am here to tell you, although you won't hear me because all the ground-based satellites seem to be out of orbit, no thanks to the civil war, perhaps. I am here to tell you that we have finished our research and I, Eberhard Lightyear, am proud to be the one, who better win at least an honorary mention or something like that at the next Nobel Prize ceremony, to tell you that this virus is easily debilitated by a ringing in your ears. It is incubated in the ears of persons who have two X chromosomes and is particularly susceptible to a ringing of the tone A flat. This ringing of the ears can be induced electronically, but is usually fatal, as the amount of decibels required to disable the virus has torn apart the greater portion of the life systems of this ship, which will fail completely very soon. I urge that you find a place on Earth where the ringing of the ears can be naturally induced, preferably in a tranquil place about 11,000 feet above sea level. Hmm... I think I know of such a place. It's name is right off the tic, I mean tip of my tongue. Well, I hope this helps. Otherwise, I guess celibacy will be in style for a while, from an evolutionary standpoint."
|Friday, February 27th, 2004|
A terrain with a layer of glass. Jagged rocks jut out in places. The layer of glass is caused by the extreme heat created in the obscene biological processes of this beast who dwells in the area occasionally, residing primarilly in a cave, perhaps. Underneath this layer of glass is sand. It's thin in places and each step our protagonists take create craters wrinkled with glass fractures. It's even because this beast executes these biological processes fairly often. They are triggered by the sight of certain flowers, perhaps.
A land of people who only are able to communicate with only a few choice phrases. Donya gets really annoyed. Phantom-tollbooth manner. I have yet to determine their means of locomotion. Perhaps there won't be one.
|Thursday, February 26th, 2004|
A Donya Solo Fan club. It's the first day of school and Sulia is studying diligently. The screen widens to show a person of docile nature sitting with that silly frill worn by Donya. Sulia tries to befriend this peculiar person but is met with an eccentric silence (I'll figure out how that works later). She/he is believed to be thinking deep thoughts, of course. Some time later, a group of students wearing silly frills congregate in some remote corner of campus. Sulia tries to inconspicuously blend in, and thinks about all the virtues of her social decision. They perform some absurd silly rite with capes like Margaret Mead fans do with sticks.
A noiresque mystery, if I can pull it off. With a love pentagon hopefully.
Donya and Doniel may soon meet a character with 9 well-chosen phrases as the entirety of his/her vocabulary. This may prove to be useful, although conversation may be... interesting.
|Monday, February 23rd, 2004|
Euripides isn't actually a woman. He's just some dude who happened to enjoy writing about women. Drat. Cool name too. Time to look for another Woman who stands as a solid symbol for women and/or women rights with a dominant catch name (that means no eleanors). Euridice? Dunn even know who she is. Time to do some research. Oh yeah, Orpheus' gal.
Weird ways to make money
1. go around highschools, get into their libraries, steal all the little cards where people sign their names in the books. make a huge catalogue. When they become famous (cause newsweek says the single best characteristic of successful people is that they read alot), sell those as autographs. And/or since alot of highschools are old already, famous signatures may already be present in them. Doesn't work as well with universities cause they revamp their libraries to attract new students and books are generally electronically checked out.
2. acquire a cheap, large storage space. Go around movie theaters, schools, public places, ask for lost and found stuff relevant to the place (jackets, books, cameras, umbrellas when it's raining). Store. Organize prettilly. Sell.
|Saturday, February 21st, 2004|
A race. Lets call them the snerks. They believe they're the primary life-form on their home-planet Bob, which is actually a puff of pollen on one of the many ingenous plants on the grove between Stagnation and wherever Donya is headed. There's the snorks, who want to gain political power on Bob. They're biologically different in some drastic fashion. The snerks have recently made some technological advance. For the sake of equality, the snorks emulate the advance, although it's widely unnecessary.
Possibilities for advance:
-Some grounded transportational diddly when the snorks can fly with greater ease
-The net, when snorks can already tele-communicate across the pollen
-Universal health-care, asexual marriages...
Whiff of pollen says elevated in the air because of some fluke caused by the see-saw nature of the political squabbles on Bob. Once it's a peaceful environment, Bob will drift slowly to its doom. For this reason, Bob is the only pollen with (insert some characteristic of civilization) in Stag Nation.