Cynthia Dyer-Bennet (cdb) Fri 31 Dec 99 10:03
Erik Van Thienen (levant) Fri 31 Dec 99 13:19
<Not in front of the punters, dear!>
David Gans (tnf) Sun 23 Apr 00 23:50
Topic 59 - Hyphenation 7 While contemplating the possibilities of a new millennium, it's good to explain to the newbies the positive angles of the old millenium, bolstering whatever doubts they might already entertain about the bad old dogs that inhabit the seventh circle of Hell. For what are these dogs but reincarnations of another centipede, with fewer legs but with dispositions no less visionary than the Y2K packrats; for the centipedes did not stockpile anything but shoes, and lord knows they need a lot of shoes. But what about whales that have no shoes? Do we provide sandals for their fins? Or do we let them go bare-flipper, like the rest of the big finalists in the evolution sweepstakes? Did you know that whales once wore bibs while feasting on shrimp and plankton and tails for formal otters? But over the centuries, they gave up their sartorial ways and options, choosing instead the most direct paths to the best stocked pancakes the house could offer. Syrup could be had in different flamboyant hues, as though drops of crystalline color had spilled indignation all over the tablecloth, while the hostess tried valiantly to reply to their incessant answers. But they were more interested in felling the huge Christmas tree that sat in the center of the table, making love on the hearthrug, and playing their guitars than whatever wesleyan dirge the hostess had in mind, which was a pity because westerners have no real concept of week-old cat piss on stacked newspapers, and its effect on visiting herds of ants, speaking gently and carrying stacks of Watchtowers into roadside diners from coast to coast, leaving them in the bathhouses that line the road to Hell, frequented by harpies, harlots, harridans and harlequins who hardly ever haplessly seat themselves upon the ant-infested, soiled seat of social superiority: the grouse groused begrudgingly, for he secretly harbored a servant in the basement. The servant spent most of his time doing laundry, since that's where the washer and driver's side airbag could be inflated with nitrous oxide for those participating in the sweepstakes (and marketing survey), without jeopardizing their standing in various professional orgasm-delaying workshops and karaoke completists who have every single one of Ben Fong-Torres's incredible perversions imitated to a T, ceaselessly honing them at truck stops and bohemian grove hoedowns. You should see some of those guys handle a microgram balance; you'd think they were post-grad chemistry studs who've never had a square dance with a Bunsen-burning beatitude-spouting spiritual ROMAN CANDLE OF LOVE! God's love, I think to myself, as I sit in my hyphenated, hermiated, hermetically-sanitized hotel suite overlooking the Las Vegas Strip. What the hell gophers got to worry about, anyway? They just sing that silly song, over any drop of the proverbial hat, sometimes even without benefit therefrom other than the exercise of inflating their lungs and floccinaucinihilipilificating the hangers-on who tend to their eviction notices by chewing them into tiny sodden lumps of papier mache, then returning them to the oven for ten more minutes at 550 degrees. Then they set 'em on the windsock to cool. Once cooled, they're hung on the holiday trebuchet until Dad has decided on an appropriate target. Taking careful aardvarks to visit their neighbors at the zoo was his first intention, thankfully, the skunks weren't home. Jim scrawled a note expressing his regards for Broadway, which was only a block from the zoo, and started to dance in that direction. A cop pulled up alongside and said, "Mambo No. 5?" Yes, said Jim. "But what's the aardvark doing?" "He's mistaken your gym bag for a female aardvark, I'm afraid." Drawing his pea shooter, he took aim at the animal, but the pea hit the shell and burst into flame, a fireball rising into the air at the speed of... well, a pyrotechnic pea, and headed straight at the underside of a passing red-glowing sphere, which continued impassively in its uncannily steady flight, whirling, tumbling and turning in a mad spiraling pea dance of death. The animal turned as the pea shot by its head and thought "Well, shit! My uncle Herbert always told me to watch myself with that pea shooter, but he never said nothin' about no aardvark shells what could set off matter-energy conversions if you so much as bounced a pea off 'em. Thus wisened, he headed back to the barn, hung up his saddle and trudged wearily into the hind-end of the first bovine he happened upon, mistaking said posterior for a homo cervidae. To quickly switch the subject, he grabbed a cordless toothbrush -- the new, ultrasonic variety -- and flipped the swan on its back amidst a flurry of squawks and flying feathers. Unhappy about being inverted, the swan pecked him on the nose, 1/4 bushel of birdseed, give or take a few grains, right in the fatherland! Have you seen my father, by the way? I was hoping he'd resume the story he was telling when the SuperBowl started, the SuperBowl of 1916 tons, and what do you get? Another day older and deeper in doodoo. As usual. But what does it matter when you have snapping swans and piles of plush pillows upon which to collapse? Swan down? Heaven forefend! Duck feathers will have to suffice, 'cause the down market was closed down sixteen points in active trading, but the tar futures counter-indicated any rash moves, so they called the whole thing off and brought the dancers back out for a bow. Backstage, the director was frantically attempting to separate costumes from cobwebs, in preparation for the grand finale, in which Fed Chairman Alan Greenspan would be flown in on a gilded swan boat and flambeed by a passel of anarchist chiropractors suffering from acute flatulence. The dessert, however sulfur- ridden, still whispered "raspberry cream" to those who listened closely. Having concluded the meal, they all lit cigars and leaned back, sighing coprophages all. Had they lived on another plane, they would have been flabbergasted by the quantity of cocaine that was served up on silver trinkets, purchased from a roadside stand on the outskirts of Alamogordo, a few of which still had labels saying made in Taiwan. How those items got from Taiwan to New Mexico is no mystery, as the shells of spent cruise missiles littered the ground neatly arranged by size and color. General Martha Stewart put down her binary pulsar and gazed across the plateau. "Do you ever wonder if alley cats really have homes and are just slumming?" To which her aide resumed scooping the cat litter out of the Sahara desert, without a worry about the relative merits for this purpose of sand versus claymore shrapnel, or buckshot. Knowing that those big cats are so harmless as harried she also requisitioned an ample supply of eau de skeet shooter, a distillate from the pineal glands of canardophiles, that is to say, lovers of double, tandem sets of wings, the front pair being short and forward politely, but insistently, declaring their love for menachem Begin's earlier films. Boy meets nation, nation gets tough, toughs genuflect at the altar of Mars, God of War, while gentler spirits look on french perfume sales at eBay with wonder; for you can't smell through the interplanetary vacuum, washed by the solar wind, and hot as smoldering coals or cold as dry ice, depending on where you enter the system. But everyone has to pass through the Porcelain white teeth of the night with its jaw stretched open wide and yarrowroot potions mixed thrice smoothly are sure to erase your wraparound skirt before you know it. And there you'll be, with your ass to the wind and an upside-down swan at your feather-witted lover who means well, but you can still see the vacancy signs flashing in their eyes when you look into the depths of impossibly clear water, seemingly as light as air iterating like physics equations in space, where seldom is heard a discouraging word because sound doesn't travel normally in a vacation cabin torn loose from its foundation by an avalanche thundering DOOM, DOOM to the ski resort developers, who raped my hillsides, and stuccoed every third bungalo an awful paisley. On the bright side, they refused to allow a Chuck E. Cheese franchise to move in. There will be an out-and-out riot when the kiddies find out, but we're hoping to forestall threats of rampant clapboard and heedless tarmacadam expansion into areas heretofore covered with hardwood floors and/or natural sod. Between near-term risks of global warming and long-term worries about oceanic CO2 abrogation, no one seems willing to use the right word for the mischief stirred up in the headlong pursuit of the maximization of professional enrichment promised by the promoters of this weekend convoy. The word is 10-4, good bud -- sticky, aromatic, INTOXICATING! Roll up a fattie and let's have a policeman over here to confiscate your trucks, your loads, and your Starbuck's mugs -- EVERYTHING will be taken and sold! Taxes just aren't enriching enough to keep RICO happy, but he'll soon rake in a bit extra from the bad boys what been doing that DOS thuggery on the peace-loving Mac users of the Wasatch mountains, whose water-powered generators whir gently as they point and close friends won't tell you where the key to the universe is, but when I find it I'll tell your next door neighbor, with instructions that they should never more than whisper its location in your presidential election flyer; everyone knows that they're all painfully awkward in face-to-face dealings, but when they get in front of the cannon they've got to expect some intrusion. Nevertheless, the monetary value on intellectual property isn't fair, but does give new meaning to "penny for your thoughtful analysis of my entire oeuvre, sung to the tune of 'I Feel Pretty,' like a little monkey in a dress." I stammered, embarrassed, and looked at the big grey violinist, who was playing the world's smallest violin and making far too much squeaking and far too little intoning, all the while glancing furtively at the ceramic skunks. Where did that cop come from, in his shades and that torn bathing cap. This is the weirdest psychedelic trip! Where is my triple-thick chocolate fudge mocha highball festooned with sketches of Peanuts characters executed in dark chocolate icing, with pea-shooter straws to suck up the melted sugar/fat concoction and 'splat!' evening gowns bombarded with gelatinous rice cakes and batwing proof that though Spartans wore scarlet in battle so the enemy could not see Spartan blood spilled, rigor mortis was a bit of a giveaway affectation. Such an affectation had little effect on the swans, who continued to swim about because swans being affected cannot see it as their own fault, only a fault in other lands with large ducks. Cause large ducks are garish and grotesque, except with they're graceful and gorgeous. Geese on the otho to Des Moines run have sometimes been clocked at over 80 miles per heartbeat. Ducks just can't touch those kinds of times. Not even Don Quixote fowl, known for their windmill-powered turbo-donkieskewers, a real hit at dittohead barbecues, where the meal-to-be is likely to acquire the nickname Beelzebub-on-a-Stick! We are certain that it will also be an instant hit among culinary cognoscenti, lovers of devil's food confections, contrived from the whites of eggs of threatened and endangered birds and reprimands from neighboring, low-flying catatonic interplanetary visitors, struck immobile by barbecue fumes accumulated in the attics of their interstellar house-ships, which most of them acquired with low-interest, centuries-long loans from Milky Way Bank and Trifle, known in financial circles as "The Sweetest Usury in the Cosmos." Why are the homeowners barbequeing in their attics? Not enough gravity in the back yard! The burgers kept going ballistic. Them's the breaks when you're living like a galactic comet, flitting from system to system in a neverending quest for metamorphic cosmopillars -- just can't get the timing right -- they're always unwrapped by the time we get there. Gots to re- calibrate the time-warp measurement thingamadohicky, the one that looks like a breadbox, except it's got knobs and meters on the outside, and nothing inside except a point of light that seems miles and miles away. Makes you want to stick your hand in and grab it, but the very thought is enough to send choo choo trains over the cliff. Best resort to traditional methods: Give it a pop upside the horrible realization that we're spewing nonsense in a fishbowl. But, no, best not think of theremins at a time like this. No. Definitely, no theremins. Perhaps an oboe, or even a pileated woodpecker, with a bit of training. My goldfish look forward to a change in diet, spew nonsense in their bowl, they say, with abnormally long eyelashes, for fish, to which they apply eyeliner at every opportunity, which basically means whenever no bipedal landlubbers are wading through the muck. But. Consider this. Fish have no thumbs. Disco bears don't have real thumbs either, but they make do. What if squid ruled the world? There wouldn't be such a premium placed on prehensility. It's all reviled by the posthensiles, anyway. So why besmirch members that don't seem to belong to any avowed hensibility. POSTHENSILES UNITE! Down with the oppressive medalists of Olympic hensibility! Up with pseudopods, semipods and the podless! Hence, aisles open for all! Let's slither into the supermarket and fill our basket with frozen soy products, fat-free mucilage and pantyhose. Once our basket is filled, we can proceed to the changing room, where we can try these products on for size before masticating them unrecognizably, rendering them unreturnanable at most empty warehouses, filled to the brim with brimstone, and hot stuff it is, that broken promise of heavenly redemption made manifest in the sulfurous arousal of the exhaust from salvation's regular bus that usually drops from heaven like rose petals but which today thudded to the ground altitudinally bereft. Must be the humidity. Gases are so easily lead astride those zephyrs that would waft them to a destination unknown to man, never seen by human eyes, catalogued by perverts as their personal Nirvana. Those who think in the nostrils of the divine reside the vapors of immortality. Well, if not there, where? I had forgotten about that aspect of this matter until my bear showed up at the back door with his friends, the two decadent deer, declaiming loudly about the decline of decorum in the deadly nightshade-eating otters, who picked up this unusual gastronomic predilection while gambolling along the rivers of the Upper West Alliterative Alleghenies allowing alligators all alliances albeit altogether artificially alliterated. Whatever. We'll wend our way where wascally wabbits wouldn't wander, perhaps perambulating perithematically, back to the point. What was the point?
Cynthia Dyer-Bennet (cdb) Mon 24 Apr 00 11:18
John Payne (satyr) Mon 24 Apr 00 17:59
Not a read for the feeble minded!
flying jenny (jenslobodin) Mon 24 Apr 00 21:20
I think it's fabulous
hey-jannie (hey-jannie) Tue 25 Apr 00 05:37
I'm getting feeble minded just reading it. My brain hurts...but I love it.
subject to change (writetime) Tue 25 Apr 00 06:28
Good grief! What an amazing read!
Cynthia Dyer-Bennet (cdb) Tue 25 Apr 00 10:23
MORE LINE BREAKS! MORE LINE BREAKS! The places where there's a paragraph break sure make it easier to read.
Gail Williams (gail) Tue 25 Apr 00 10:36
Seems like the playback meister could do that with editorial impunity.
David Gans (tnf) Tue 25 Apr 00 10:44
He did indeed.
Gordon Taylor (warfrat) Thu 4 May 00 15:39
My coworkers always wonder why I'm laughing so hard when I'm reading this. Then I show it to them. After about 20 or so lines, they give up, shake their heads and walk away chuckling while I'm left to clean up my computer screen.
Bud Burlison (bud39bevy) Thu 22 Jun 00 15:22
I silently grieve the inactivity in the Hyphenation topics, and with the incipient paranoia that has been my lifelong companion, I can only hope it wasn't something that I contributed that would explain the absence. sob.
Martha Soukup (soukup) Thu 22 Jun 00 16:10
I've stopped being as interested in playing, though I read it, since the Hyphenation topics stopped using hyphenation rules, and around the same time I guess went to multiple lines per post. It's a more entertaining challenge to me when it is more challenging.
Linda Castellani (castle) Thu 22 Jun 00 16:20
Oh Bud! I have started Hyphenation 9 for you, not realizing that we played back and forgot to start a new one. Thanks for reminding us. Go my children, and hyphenate, but do not exceed one line. (By more than a character or two, she added benevolently.)
Gail Williams (gail) Thu 22 Jun 00 16:29
Yeah, the lack of following the form did make it less interesting, to me, too, now that you mention it. An actual single line ending with a properly hyphenated word is not so difficult, really. It's simple enough to look at an online dictionary to get the break in the right position at least most of the time. Like, posi-tion rather than p- or positi- and other random breaks. And keeping it to one line, or including a paragraph break helps too. IE: ..if we got back into it, con- tinuing this could be fun. It also takes a group of regulars who love to partake of the sweet friv- --- But I digress.
Gail Williams (gail) Thu 22 Jun 00 16:29
Bud Burlison (bud39bevy) Thu 22 Jun 00 16:49
Bunches of Yay!, and adherence to the rules.
David Gans (tnf) Thu 22 Jun 00 18:06
Rules? There ain't no rules in Hyphenation.
Gail Williams (gail) Thu 22 Jun 00 18:48
You are a gracious and game fellow!
Elise Matthesen (lioness) Thu 22 Jun 00 22:07
I'm up for it if it's actual hyphenations. The not-really-hyphenations are like, um, playing tennis with the net down. (And not nearly as satisfying as free verse, alas.) But I'm in crank mode, so don't mind me.
David Gans (tnf) Fri 23 Jun 00 08:58
The best response to poor play is correct play.
Gail Williams (gail) Fri 23 Jun 00 10:50
Elise Matthesen (lioness) Fri 23 Jun 00 11:35
Hyphenation 8 (tnf) Tue 27 Jun 00 11:06
Topic 72 - Hyphenation 8 It seems only fair to begin this iteration of the Hyphenation Topic wondering about that last half inch of paper that never seamed at the edges of its curl. Is that a pool of correction fluid I see, or are you snuggling under the covers with your last jar of peanut butter and a box of wet naps? I'm not gonna let you near me with that stuff on your finest linen bib. It's becoming more difficult to obtain that quality of lichen-infested bobcat dung since the market crashed, leaving unfinished business everywhere and causing no end of upset among the congregation that invested the poorbox money. Now Bill Gates shoves cantelopes in his briefs, but that doesn't mean you have to do it. Besides, career paths differ from person to person, and if it's possible to make a buck shoving canteloupes into your britches, la chaim to y'all and kinder. Whatevah, Billy Boy. You're the monopolist, after all. I can't elope, I can't elope, O honey, do, honey dope! My other car's a jackalope, hidy-hidy-ho! Now, when someone comes to the door with melons in his pants and asks my dainty mother if he can borrow the melon baller, I'm liable to take off in a detached view of the situation, I don't think that what goes on in the privacy of one's home between a man and his melons is anyone's bushido of the boudoir, but the Inquirer knows no bounds. It's all over the front part of the melon, explaining perfectly why he keeps them in his pants, protecting his privates by providing a decoy of sorts. But there would seem to be a need for some sort of shock absorption mechanism, no? Suppositories made of inflatable foam perhaps? Then again, that's only protection for the baby inside. Wait a minute -- that can't be right -- you can't have babies in your back pocket, unless you're a very rare type of marsupial which is only found in remote parts of the Northwest Territories, along with the pygmy reporter on nature studies for the local monthly news. The rag is available for download at http://www.biteme.com/helpyourself/newsletter/200004.html, expecting to read the whole thing unless your mind is too short circuited to parse a sentence what with all those melons in your pants. Otherwise, it's a pretty good report, a bit too heavy with useless pie charts and short on cogent anthologies of other tribal customs related to melon placement in the nether regions of American males, but I found it a bracing read anywhere I was not likely to be implicated in health-code violations. But I suppose one could have worse (and better) things than melons in one's pants, so let's make like a lettuce and leaf this already. On an otherwise ordinary day, I was surprised to find a casaba on my front porch. "How weird," I thought, but left it behind and went to work. My boss was especially glad to see me. "The copier od'd on a bad batch of toner and is in there bouncing off the walls and spewing out gibberish. Put on your waders, get in there and start protecting our secrets! That machine has LOOSE LIPS when it gets laid underneath a big table in the immense dining room of the Old Same Place in Santa Bartolomeo in the old country. The very first machine was developed there for the use of the mojo workers, who knew where to put the grease and pralines on the proper trays for dispersal of praline atoms but since the attraction between the human tongue and the praline is so strong once there is fusion it may be too late to prevent the meltdown of the entire gustatory apparatus. Ford pickup owners are especially cautioned about the use of pralines while transporting the machine in the banana consomme tank, because you have to clean that sucker out VERY Thomas Aquinas-like. I mean, you gotta just bamboozle those Christians with whatever miraculous illusion you can mucilage onto their fuselage. Whatever keeps you in the air, I say. Sweets for the sweaty, sugar for my gas tank -- you know I'll always find a way to sabre dance when the music is condensible to three beats instead of four. Setting the sheet music aside, I gathered up my syllabus in preparation for tonight's lemur party (lemurs rarely approve of parties, but if you offer 'em French 75s they'll be right oven cleaning fools, they will; some of the narratives will give you pause, but we all tell ourselves stories in organized harmonies that will certainly throng and thrum in resonance with the rolling, rumbling rhythms of the ubiquitous aardvark, whose lineage raises the question "where'd ya get that box of crayons, and are you gonna let the whole class play with them? If not, go and aard elsewhere, you varking stingepot!" Honestly, what is it with you inkwell readers, inventing words on the fly and pretending they're noble assertions of the finest minutiae of the literary life, when in fact they are pure flights of fannies, sparkling white in the sun as they fly over the Golden Gate, enrolled as the first class in Moons Flying Circus. You can alloy the noble metals of leg-irons that are fitted for the ravaging beast that would eat the town whole unless reminded that towns give it indigestion unless it skips the appetizer of the outskirts and farquhar brothers auto parts. The brothers were lower case types who, posing as mild mannered capitalists, actually managed a subterranean army of supernumeraries that were infiltrating unsuspecting opera casts who must have been very unsuspecting indeed if they believed for one minute that capitalists were mild mannered at all, in view of their previous management of the Moons Flying Circus, which had acquired a reputation as always being late with their kisses, we would have known not to inspect too closely for blemishes. These surface distractions acquire a patina of shimmering concrete walkways wending through the tallest resource management plan, with opportunistic pox laying waste to the greatest laid plans of mangy mongrels, making their masters mad by munching marbled murrelets marinated mostly in madiera and muscatel. Scrawny things, those bronchial tubes, he said, lighting another ciggie and blowing out a puff of smooching smallpox-infested satyrs into the night, expecting to hear nothing but the sound of distant traffic. But suppurating lip sores notwithstanding, the largest police officer stood firm at his post. "If you think this postgraduate course in print work for behemoths of the ages, the antediluvian monarchs of the volcanic landscapes of the Triassic era, is for yodels, think again. Chortles rule. Unless of course a takeover is staged by the witless freak that grabbed my by the blueberry vines clinging to my designer ceiling hatch. A damn good thing I left it open or terrible death and pestilence would have been visited on the walls of the compound which were painted orange because the orangutan family that owned the place some years before. But that was a long time back, and that was then and this is not the time or place to discuss this kind of crap in front of your minor children. My cousin Herb was shunned by our family for denominational politics, particularly rampant at the orifice that serves as the intake for the process. The more that is input, the larger he gets. Hey, somebody pull the parts that drop the rear end on that equipment. The speed ration needs to be increased until his heart rate is pinned in the red and his blood pressure infinitely blue, receding upward beyond the limits of complicated equations to describe, until the face turns bright red and the hair begins to lay the way mother trained it. That's the first induction current, while consecutive parallel circuses spiral endlessly perforating the paper that you carried the wet garbage in. Leaks, wet spots, all over the entropic horizon, permeating hyperspatial relationships between the effluence and the affluence. In other words, don't think I won't post every fucking day until someone else comes along to join me in the conversation.
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