Bud Burlison (bud39bevy) Tue 27 Jun 00 12:08
love it!! thanks <tnf>
Elise Matthesen (lioness) Wed 28 Jun 00 19:55
That do have a certain beauty, it do. <whistling in admiration>
David Gans (tnf) Sat 2 Sep 00 07:54
Hyphenation 9 I. If only it were as easy to decide which frog to dissect as it is to disgust my Mother with another prefabricated meal that I took out of the freezer and threw into the minimalist sculpture in my living room. But hey, it's my digs, and if mom wants to berate me for living this way, she can do it on her own turf. I slanderously muttered that she was the offspring of a multispecies union, formatting another disc for the program to wipe her out of my memory, at least until she plants some trees in the den and invites some squirrels in to set up housekeeping. I told her, "Mommy Dearest, your presence at this funeral is not appreciated. Mr. Bunny never liked your preposterously gnarled features nor your supercilious attitude regarding his eating hastily gathered pieces of bark, and a few shade trees down the road have naked limbs to preen yourself with on a bad hair day." Unfortunately, Mom has no habit any more, since she left the convent, so she can't cover her hair, relinquishing any semblance of control over her discolored teeth, her badly-dyed hair, her mismatched socks, her Ho-Hos stale in their half-torn wrappers on the linoleum. Even her mouse begins to squeak in torment at this hard cheese, this focal point of many gazes, this unique remembrance of things past, this stale and crumbling made-in-the-USA myth of male magnificence. Many a man may malinger mightily while moiling for mere metal, but it's the regenerative power of Ni-Cad batteries that hold the true anchovy sauce, while the port goes on the escalloped ventilators that spin the wine into the yawning mouths of selected teenagers culled from the crowd at the mall and taken to a spearmint plantation, where they are put to work for resident tycoons bedecked with garlands of garlic and pearls. The teens, though, wear noodles, cooked al dente, on various parts of the body. Penne rigate is woven into a tough, rainproof outer layer, while the organism secretes poly-wanna-cracker noises at every opportunity. Once finished, it launches into a brilliantly revisioned staging of "Tartuffe," set in the modern-day White Hell, also known as Wall Street, where the moneylenders option the future, trade the now and speculate in the undead. It's a good time to buy zombie puts, but vampire futures are redlined to the limit, and Mommy Dearest can't decide whether that makes herpetology a viable commodity or just another stillborn IPO. To gather more information, I jumped into my Rover and drove her to the destination marked on the map I'd seen earlier in my box of Cheerios. "Up to your old Trix again, sweetie?" I snarled. "You're gnarly enough without the addition of those loops of greedy trained ants ambulating 'round your neck as if you were some kind of ringleader in a children's sit-com," she retorted. And, for once, she had me. Because many young people, addicted to both sugary cereals and saccharin situations, find themselves pitching in the major leagues before tearing off the correct coupons. This always leads to the following scenario: A young girl or boy, dressed in nice clothes, steaming hats. Steaming the hats for the perfect final countdown to the big day, when they finally grate the cheese everyone's been dreaming of since Thursday. In the mold of the crust they scratch messages to pleading nannies, whose most unquiet minds give rise to nervous tweakings of otherwise perfect pie crusts intertwined with buttercups. Bright yellow buttercups. And, to make things worse, everything turned a bright purple just as the flowers were oppressing the children in a most unkind manner, swaying and ploughing through the playground , tearing up everything in schedules from 3:00 p.m. for the small ones and after 5:00 for the ex- toddlers. This sort of thing drives Mummy crazy. "Halt!" she screams. "Untie the nanny! Dress the goat! Put down the flamethrower!" Clearly, more spitball training is in order here. Stand over the machine and wait for the green light. Put in three quarters. Twist the upper body to the left until it hurts, and then twist to the right unilateral disarmament -- well, that's what Mother says. Besides, morphine keeps everything from hurting at all, and then how do you decipher any codes that are sent using the same melanogaster? Use more than one fruit fly. Redundancy, that's the ticklish concept I couldn't get across to my mother, who didn't grasp the ticket tight enough, the wind took it away, and she was off the right side of the page until a perspicacious layout person set the market value of the Canadian dollar at $.75. This type of insubordination has got to stop, do you hear me? -- <bud> <castle> <cdb> <gail> <lioness> <michael-martin> <neil-glazer> <rjs> <soukup> <tnf> <warfrat>
David Gans (tnf) Sat 2 Sep 00 07:54
II. "Wrap it tightly next to the pinkest part of your body, sidestepping the rules to allow your mind to wander, avoid telling." Always avoid telling, that's what my momentary insanity is today. Take one paragraph from here, a comma from there, cross a t and there you have another example of why editors and writers should never be inside the car with the windows rolled up on a hot day. More of this insanity ensued and before you knew it, fluffy pink bunnies were flattened in the middle of the road. That big old trollop was reading Trollope. "Mo-*THER*!!" I shrieked. "At least undo the psychic damage caused by a lifetime of years gone by in a floating bordello". So many years of turning tricks for paper boys you have to fish out of the hedge later, after hysterical screaming dwarves swinging from chandeliers ravaged theatrical props used to decorate the production. The show went on desperado time, when we saddle up and ride hell-for-leather over the silk draperies hanging helter-skelter from the middle of the ceiling fault line. Attaching anything to a fault line can result in a cable from a distant relative, informing one that arrival is delayed, until the delay is over, at which time the arrival arrives, unless thermal conditions prevail that don't perforate at the edges. Mail in the bottom half with your payment, energize the left half of the cylinder and revert to type under stress. Mom said it's inevitable, given how many archives of squarely-set architectural binders are currently available inside the lower intestine until the air pressure halts the formation of curlycue wisps of formica hardening in your duodenum. Certainly, a hardened duodenum is a problem, but far worse is the extradition treaty negotiated last week. Informed sources suggest that upper GI negotiations have traditionally been easier than lower Grand Hotel reservations to cancel in the event of illicit auction sales gone sour in the final moments. Usually, there's a way to tie these disparate threads together with a brilliant phonetic assembly of linguistic symbols strung together in meaningful writhing displays of neon-colored vowels and pastel consonants fingering the notes very carefully. As the strings are turmeric- dyed, there will be considerable fading. By the time everyone gets served, it'll be time to clear the tables and begin the entrail reading part of the evening, along with palmistry and tea leaping. You've never leapt tea? Neither have I, but I'm looking forlorn because after the tea is steeped, it's too high for musicians to reach, so they usually wind up arranging themselves around the base of the table, singing bass. Mummy, of course, sings tenor. -- <bud> <castle> <cdb> <lioness> <neil-glazer> <tnf>
David Gans (tnf) Sat 2 Sep 00 07:55
III. After untying Roberto from the anthill, the posse proceeded to Salamanca by charabanc. "Mother, you mountebank!" I shrieked. "This confounded entrail- reading, tea-leaping varmint has got his teeth in the mutton again!" Someone else is going to have to explain this to Grandfather clocks imitating stolen statues of time, ticking away the minutes belonging to paternalistic geodesic dome builders, who obstinately refuse to hire wooly caterpillars, claiming that they shed everywhere and the hair glued to the bottom keeps everything from slipping. Try that for the molecular attraction; it might explain a few things, like how the walrus is I, or why telephones seem to know when you are bathing, or what do I do when I hear whales whistling my name? These are quips that only insiders can appreciate; those reading on the web must continue for about a quarter mile until you pass a blue sign that says, Adopt-an-Information-Highway -- these two milieus are currently, and for the foreseeable future, sponsored by heroic groups of Deadheads who brave the cold, rain and snow to rid the agonized auditorial archives of arranged Abba anthems arrayed across amplitude modulated airwaves already aching from the astounding ancillary alliteration accompanying altered atonal applause assassinated by alliteration. But, bud baby, buy me some BBs, before beleagered bystanders berate by email, beetle-browed, brown-bowler-bedecked Berkeleyans borrow bucks, or bohemian buttheads belie their beliefs by belaying their bluster and bums cop cheesy chump change collecting collateral coinage, contravening conventional corporate claims, deliberately delivering defective devices to demanding distributors, who demand Dad demonstrate definite decision-making deftness. Dearest dark lord, what do you expect me to do about all this? It's not my reality closing in on the center of my brain, it's the sequence of events that got me from a nice quiet job in a slaughterhouse to testes checker in the Grand Ballroom of the local VD clinic. Quite a distinguished CV I have, surely sufficient to qualify me for the pregnancy test offered by Howard Hughes' minions. Or is it? Can we really expect anything to carry the submarine firing torpedoes at the bow of the sheesh! Did you see that one go by? It nearly blotted out the finish for H9, unless someone sees fit to continue. And we do. Thanks, Bud, for kickstarting this most important tool for oppressing the masses of non- delegates to the unconventional method of creating essays that wither on the vine without Prozac infusions or proper topic sensitivity to help alter the tone and meandering, loopy sort of creole dishes, redolent with peppery spices and other flights of fancy that took her away from the hummingbird reaction, in which the nectar is sipped while hoved to and lashed to the port side of the vessel. The brigands leaped to and fro in frilly pink tutus, ignoring the cries of the captive audience, now considering going overboard but for the shovel is used before the rake in this project. The compost should be spilled all over the fuselage, for aromatherapy, so instinct takes over immediately. Flight is the primary focus of the winged honey ant. Does Yolanda Martin love me, or does she hate me, I mean, I just can't tell, but the way I feel about her, I could just extrapolate to the entire female faculty and assume that not a single one of them has a brass fastener that locks the fan to the axle. A strict regimen of polymorphous perversity may be the key to sucrose-induced mystical explorations, but if you add a little fungus to the formula you can resent the fact that you are an astronaut that stayed out in space a little too long. That explains the rather large cyst on your foc'sle, but your poop deck is another story altogether. What the fantail looks like sailing away... -- <bbrewer> <bud> <castle> <cdb> <eurospiral> <hey-jannie> <lioness> <neil- glazer> <ssol> <tnf> <zepezauer>
David Gans (tnf) Sat 2 Sep 00 07:55
IV. Co-ops really get messy when theater tickets litter the lobby. Try using a Vanagon to get across the Canadian Bohemian Rhapsody was one of the best sonnets written by William Shatner. -- <bbrewer> <bud> <mpk> <re-fertig> <tnf>
Bud Burlison (bud) Sat 2 Sep 00 09:14
I love it. Thanks <tnf>, for the compilation. I'll work on my addiction to this thing.
Steven Solomon (ssol) Sat 2 Sep 00 11:59
Hee! Thanks, David.
David Gans (tnf) Mon 4 Sep 00 09:33
That was the best hyphenation topic ever. I stayed up very late Friday night in a motel in Ukiah, concatenating the posts and divining the paragraph and chapter breaks.
Cynthia Dyer-Bennet (cdb) Tue 5 Sep 00 16:12
Little did I realize there were *chapters*!
Neil Glazer (neil-glazer) Wed 6 Sep 00 09:30
David, your concatenations were quite creative and your divining was, of course, divine!! Thanks for pulling it together -- it all makes sense to me now!!! ;^)
Gail Williams (gail) Wed 6 Sep 00 09:34
That is lovely.
Hyphenation 10 (tnf) Mon 20 Nov 00 11:51
Would it be presumptuous of me to refer to this conference as a neophyte writer's playpen? Topic threads turning every whch way? I know how that is: but I find it totally revisionist. Better we should don our party duds and climb into our aeroplanes and fly over the town square at low altitude, frightening the homogenized milk deliverypersons, as they deliver their microbe-free dairy products from their horse-drawn carts to hounds and foxes in the Virginia countryside. These antediluvian pedants who sit hunched over their lavatories following yet another night of overindulgence, raving and regurgitating their pickled larks' tongues and candied elephant perplexities. Yes, his head hurt, but he dimly recalled the lady in the red driven rage of memories best left behind, as she would have left her beanie-baby collection in the microwave from sheer reactionary fervor, such as only a dyed-in-the-wool running dog can sustain in the face of the ridicule, argument and disgust he inspires in hot dog wrappers blowing in the infield. As soon as the sun beheads the Dauphin in the tableau, we can go. He will be requited, no doubt, for losing his head over Po-Boy sandwiches with heaping sides of fried tubers, hold the mayor's head in the boiling fat for as long as it takes and then bring the bold fashion statement that occurs for next year's debutante balls. But hey, why bother? Any old broque, finely rendered in wet noodles will do fine. Just set your sewing machine to donut holes, fill them with chocolate sauce, and drench the whole mechanic with your life savings for fixing something as simple as the denial mechanism in your head. Then, your mental health fully recalibrated, you can get to work on that funny noise the translating machine, which hasn't worked right since Buffy spilled her chondroiton-glucosamine "arthritis milkshake" all over biff's lap and then attempted to blot it up with newspaper. But I had my tricycle parked in the order lane at MacDonald's and some son of a bitch PUKED right on the seat. Two all-beef patties, special symbolism fully intended. Well let me tell you, that really chapped my hitherto pristine lips, but with the application of Hello Kitty Lip Bleach, I'm now a slick-lipped, luscious labia'd piece of woe-is-me. Smack-a-roni is a new entry in the "fortified foods" market that seems destined to father a new trend of mainlining pasta. Or just mix with water in a spoon and link the president to yet another scandal, this one involving a Big Mammary Gland. Not just one, but two, on the same peg-legged picker who fell off his stool at the Kit Kat Klub, but when the paramedics argued that he should go to the hospital, everyone around rotated on their stools, kicked their legs up in unison and shouted, "Hi there, good lookin'! Say, what's your simplistic characterization of the issues in the presidential race? Send any spurious press releases to the media lately, homeboy? Are you a media jackal? Need someone to read that to you? Get your aspirations squashed in one fell swoop? Have your assumptions recalibrated or face the prospect of joining the Prozac Army, good solid, American workers, not like those commie drinking sessions, always so much more fun that the dull capitalist vegetables marinating in a piquant salsa made from vegetables grown in back yards in Napa County and hardly the kind of person you would want your daquiris blended by, unless you were in a real hurry and had no tin snips to wield when the nasty beast comes after you with his cornet of green ice cream. But soft! What licentious, lustful thoughts run through my mind when I swirl cool creamy soft-serve into a brass beer stein? Is that allowed? Will it consider the last person in line? After that, this place is closing in on me, and I'm feeling, oh, no, I'm starting to feel like I'm going to the races, to see the ponies run. I'll bet on one horse to win if you'll bequeath your grandiose moniker to a more deserving ice cream venture capitalist. After the IPO, you can shave ice and load it with syrup and sell it to kids on the street, at least undying love should be enough. The more you ask of me, the more money I'll charge you for going along with your depraved delicacies. Whipping the kids into a frenzy through sugar induced hysteresis loops, changing the polarity to affective doldrums. Beats Fruit-Loops or motility-enhancing treatments, which is a roundabout way of saying "lazy is my baby, 'cause she's laying in my arms tonite". A blues ritual that someone ought to record on film for posterity. Is Les Blank anally retentive or merely some kind of digital- phobic, grainy-film fetishist? Is it true that garlic makes finessing college entrance examinations a breeze, or is that just anaphylactic shock that made you turn blue and stop broadcasting your message of redemption and salvation to the peasants in thimble factories, as they toil to hand carve each one just so rich sebaceous oils can be collected by dwarves in the deepest forests of glowing orange spots. These spots can be spread by applying helium to the perimeter of each spot, then buffing out with a belt sander and number two sandpaper. Unfortunately, this also tends to tear a howling baboon to bits with tiny razor sharp blonde hyenas, laughing and chattering as they circle their prey, awash in the spoor from their lipstick red buttocks and parachutes trailing behind their behinds. Suddenly an aardvark burst from four different directions. "Pull yourself together", said the marshmallow, "I'm practicing for my role as part of a s'more, and I neglected to telephone the chocolate bar to meet me here at the finest example of baroque architecture in this particularly rough part of town. The Burghers are packing pistols under their powdered wigs, and the Baroness wears poisoned shampoo vending machines. Just a quarter for a handful of blue gopher guts! A bahhhhhgin! And so good for your follicles and fleabitten pubic areas that you'll rush downtown to get some more of this stuff. Of course the store is closed on Sunday, and the only other platoon of divorcees is marching across the sandy beach, hoping the sucking sound that is gathering volume isn't the labor market heading for Tijuana along with personal assistants of the human and digital variety. Sometimes it's hairy and sometimes it's smooth. A slight today, an insult tomorrow, and next week it'll be firebombing the strip malls because they ruin the entire experience of being a consumer in America toking on the drug of immediate gratification. "Love that shit", said the olfactory nerve to the taste bud. "Is it good for you, token representative of the counter culture", or are you faking and not inhaling at all? Well, whatever works for you, I guess; me, I have to have the real thing eventually burn holes in my mind and turn the resulting patterns into some sort of cheap but effective Rorschach telepathy together in act or anemic cinerama surround-sound ORGASM the way you always wanted to exhale in complete release after a massive, lung-bursting inhale of excreta gathered from the total efforts of one day's patronage of the neighborhood Taco Bell. "Methane here! Get yer AROMATIC INTESTINAL BYPRODUCTS! RIGHT HERE! Sullenly, he turned toward the crowd, ready to hawk his water-soaked remarks to the ground, gravely addressing the crowd assembled in the pouring rain, with and extemporaneous plop of chartreuse phlegm, he implored them, "Quick, afore it runs off to the sewers and loses the color, scoop it up and feed it to the horses! It's good for them! No one will bleed violet aromatic liquids if you're careful!" But remember, thin is best. The tendency toward obesity is almost never fulfilled UNLESS, of course, you have some butter on your tortilla chips, or you like to dip your bread in creme anglican, a nouveau-catholic confection that will make you want to excommunicate your meal in a projectile manner -- there is no finer concoction for cleaning vomit from walls than shaving cream. Use it spatially, carving and shaping vortexes and rainbows with your spittle flecked spectacles. The ones with the tape on the bridge that you put there to remind yourself that vision is a gift, and you should prevail mightily against those buffoons on the right that demonstrate no vision where my needs are concerned. Why can't those bastards show some competency in the way of the Inuits? I underestimated your ability to recognize irony in my tone, but somehow I need just one piece of the pie to prove my selfish desires can be made true by a wedgie. Thrust up the drawers into the crawling dessert shadows, where it will communicate with various lifeboats overful with terrified survivors of the great Titian-haired goddess, adrift on an Ile Flottante the size of a folly bigger than Chicago. This really is nobly performed in the best interest of the children, dear. We don't want them to grow thinking that we breakfast eaters have anything at all against hot lunches. But a well-balanced meal at the start of the day is as imaginary as a nekkid prospector, mining the desert of effluent in search of something nutritious and delicious. Nowhere in this water closet are there any delectable powder puffs! I thought that was a bon-bon!!! No wonder it tasted so chilly when I found it in the snowbank tonight. On nights like this, the moon is mourning behind a veil of clouds, grieving for the location I just can't seem to find, though I've been there a hunkerin' down, layin' low, considerin' my next moo, since the last one had no effect in causing the cows to come hopping across the hedgerow, teats dashing across clear blue fields of bliss-inducing wildflowers, the sun beaming from above like a proud fawn stumbling musically across the warm meadow for the very fiddle tunes that have gotten people up on their feet and dancing without regard for the prohibitions posted in large glowing letters: NO DARK STAR may be played on these premises without the prior written confirmation from the Authorities. Who are the Authorities? That's constantly being debated in the hazardous waste dumps south of town. Presidential candidates have bypassed any point of credibility, so what the fuck are we waiting for? Hold the electricity until it's built up enough of a charge to jolt both Al and Dublin's citizens right into the next galaxy, where they'll be grazing contentedly on leafy plants that provide all the nutrition we need exactly where we need it. Right in the ol' kasmir and velvet interior of the pudenda. A lovely and convenient lone prostitute named Clare waits in the rain for heroic measures to save the life of her god, Jasper, an unpleasant but loincloth-draped fellow typically depicted holding his rather large periodicals that he subscribes to on a monthly basis. His favorite being the Co-Evolution Quarterly, of course, because although he is a creation of higher beings, he adheres strictly to evolutionary theory to exhume the remains of prehensile limbs that were used billions and billions of years ago by necrophiliacs who depended on their affluent standing in the community to avoid prosecution for this ever- increasing War On Some Drugs that serves none but the "enforcement comedians, falling all over themselves, shamelessly performing Gilbert and Sullivan operettas on the lawn of the po-boy sandwich king, who usually is too engrossed frying oysters to notice the mouse playing peekaboo from behind the sugar candied and brandied pears. Those are the jars that Uncle Earl used to get his lip stuck on, but no more for hare krishnas (the ones who make the brandied pears) are now lubricating the operational status and readiness reports of our flag-waving, pattern making elves that make little bitty shoes with those curled-up, pointy toes with bells on the tits of the stripper that dances during the lunch brawls with fists, broken bottles, and shark fin soup, a delicacy that makes quite a weapon when used by an extremely sloppy eaters, drooling and projectile vomiting with great acidity. Once splashed with this kind of effluvia, it's best to strip down right then and there and begin screaming your head off, "I am Puke Man, I am Puke Man". That'll generate a whole line of people doing the Hokey Pukey right along with you, but if there isn't enough vomit to go around we'll have to genuflect, bow down, or do whatever it takes to have enough spackle to cover over all the holes left in the walls after the camera buffs get their shots. Just one roll of finger-lickin' good greasy, fried yumminess and it will be time for moron! Can you believe that retarded boy actually might wind up being prevented from voting under the new rules proposed by the retard himself? Total synaptic failure and neural depletion from yeast infection. Who'da thunk it? It turns out George has blinded the electorate with a finger in the eye, whilst picking our political scabs with the help of Dick Cheney, his fellow oil whore, ready to strip naked to keep any more ballots from being coerced out of the hands of unsuspecting alzheimer-impaired senators and congressmen, each more craven than the old guard they displaced. The downward spiral in statesmanship and degenerate behavior by politicians of all stripes began when two apes fought over the same piece of food. Not much change in a milieu where everyone is always touting how much they will change those filthy underwear, my'gawd, how long has it been since yarn was invented? It's gotta be a couple of minutes, at least.
Cynthia Dyer-Bennet (cdb) Mon 20 Nov 00 12:30
Linda Castellani (castle) Mon 20 Nov 00 14:36
HYPHENATION 11 (tnf) Thu 9 Aug 01 23:57
Topic 96 - Hyphenation 11 No one knows how this election debacle will be resolved, but even the weatherpern has added "chad" to his vocabulary, announcing that there might be a chad bit of rhetoric flying around the ether when the paternalistic bastards stop their whining and get on with the business of governing this cornucopia of autumn's riches, gorgeously arranged in a style reminiscent of brown daubs of some sort of earth substance. I picked it up on the bottom of my sheep when they slipped in the muck. And it's sooooooo hard to click on these links that move around the screen, especially when the screen itches so bad I have to scratch my glass. A spray of blithering idiot pepper gas spews out of my cybercafe screen to let me know that my tiny cup of latte is empty, and a new cup wil be downloaded for a charge roughtly equivalent to the gross national product of Bolivia. I mean, without all the coca leaves. No wonder they needed a submarine to brain-dead box of Republicans to cool their jets. And yet, why use a submarine when you can easily get a pack of lizards to carry worthless cargo, slowly but safely, all the way to Presimential inaugurities, as specified in the 'Merican Constitution, interpreted according to itself, per the wishes of the voters of Floridia, by the President Select, Whoweverthehell runs out of lawyers last, and we all know that by the time that happens piss will be poured out of a cowboy boot by Dubya to prove his interest in the beer industry. MURRICAN beer, of course, 'cause implications from imbibing the foreign stuff are just too wild to cohabitate across overcrowded, dirty-hot urban jujubes, all stuck together to make one chewy glob to pop in the motor of Shrubya's pickup truck, the one he plans to haul his furniture to the obligatory bonfire, to fulfill his dayly quota of greenhouse gummy bears. The man eats so many of the darn things, his brain has turned all soft and sticky, tho his doctors can't figure out if it always was that worm holed or just got that way recently from all of the boring long words that kept popping up in it. But who will tell the different arbiters of style which way things are going to go in the fumigation of their closets. On the one hand, getting rid of moronic columnists who lurk there in search of tidbits they can use in thoroughly illuminating the issue with their own peculiar light. A certainty in this matter is that Americans are, by and large, weird. Belgians, on the contrary, are just inscrutable. Think of the joke Rene Magritte plastered all over the face of an inconsiderate businessman, who stepped on Rene's toes while he was painfully absorbed in urinating on the steps of the Plymouth dealership down on Broadway -- aka Oakland's Auto Row. A potent mix; cars, Magritte and piss, but art is as art does, which in this case seems to mean, "Art obscures the face with giggling teenyboppers, all disguised as an apple, hovering in spectacular formations, all with their dresses over their heads, accompanied by burning turtles, looking surprised at the sudden transplantation from theatre nuclear weapons to logistics. Even the Osprey descended too quickly to continue to support life. That's the chick who stole my warwick street map and replaced it with one of Bud's ex-wives, fuhcrissake. You know, the one with the reclining love chair, who allways insisted of having foreplay with a balancing act consisting of fourteen russian gymnasts, complete with flat pancakes uleavened by yeast inflections spinning unraveling balls of pfleghm on the noses of several tiny reindeer as they struggled to lift off from the roof of a bozo filled rooming house. Each bozo room stuffed with preternaturally tall juveniles who were hoping to play Apple Bonkers in the live-action version of "Yellow Submarine" that a youth theater group was morphing into a long motorized banana, starring the next "big thing", Darfner Sturdevant, that charismatic Swedish rapper and former street crawling performance artist whose claim to fame is that he once sneezed near a reindeer-drawn sleigh and used his cold and red nose to gull the neighborhood kids into thinking he was connected with Santaria. Of course, he never sacrificed a chicken in his life, though he did behead a modem, pluck the cards from the innards and fry it up in a frenzy of hummable melodies that invaded his dreams but remained elusive in his waffles, maybe under all that syrup or under the side of banners spanning the street, illustrating the need for more intense clicking to timpanate the modemmmm's humidifying effect on pipes in general. The most efficient method of collecting user information, click-thrus, credit-card numbers, finger-prints, and genetic samples for use by industry and gonad deprived heretics with prehensile deliberative skills such as those of the highest court of the landlocked penquins, suited in black with white bibs and the eyes of those suited to a colder cliche-ridden viewpoint on life. But that's not what I mean. The point is that under my bed is a big, green, red- eyed monaural record playing system, but nothing to play on it because the technocrats have decreed that digital is the only acceptable pronouncable means of listening to organized groupings of prerecorded socialist anthems, although it is rumored that new technologies are especially itchy when first applied, but you get used to it, and pretty soon it's just like wearing a comfy pair of old snow globes in your sweater, so when you're in the back seat with the capitalist pigs while the proletarian driver speeds down side straddled on the hammer and sickle, hemorrhoids howling to the morose sound of the old man rasping and wheezing as he sentences his paragraphs to hard labor in a 1980s era word protection racket. A few bucks a week to the right guy, and all the wombats and flying geezers in the world won't stop the flow of automatic writhing, groaning, groping, ecstatic exaltations of the last and most permeating smell of this dead topic. Wonder where everybody weird is hanging out? Maybe we can flush 'em out with a few well-intentioned people handing out leaflets proclaiming inkwell.vue to be the home of Satan in cyberspace. That'll en rich the discussion and bring us to a new depth of underwear caught beneath the door and ripped the panther's tail right off as he dashed out. No one thought you could slice the trinity four ways and still make it work, but recognizing the Fourth Third as the One and True Way to Helena Montana, the City That Knows Cow, that High Desert Destination for transvestite trappists and traveling therianthropic thespians, tootling their trumpets, tongueing terrific tunes to torrid Harlequin-inspired insipid lyrics written by starving wrens preparing for their transoceanic journey to the land of noodles hanging limply from trees in the rain. A custom begging bowl, suitable for large meals, comes in handy at times like theological determinism can be comforting to the weak. Indeed, someone's attempt to hang a rhetorical u-turn in the middle of a senile dementia episode is another example. However, to return to theater in the middle of Act 2, especially when your seats are front row censored by the imbecile with a gigantic hat who refactored the code into unrecognizeability, without any regard for theory, practice, the past, the future, the present, the wishes of the coroner to keep the tasty bits and roll the rest up in a bale of hay, for the horses, of course, or any general malaise arising from repeated exposure to the byproducts of equine divine love of a horse of a different cortex, whose brain had been diverted to compensate for power losses in Calcutta, where a monumental battle between former lovers Siva and Kali has renegade commodity traders up in arms against the dayly cut in pillage and radio reception. The best reception is usually in the vacuum inside tourist's heads. The natives are resting up between shows, and somone went out for a pound of liver for the calliope, which refuses to play without its precious liver oil passing through the tubes and pipes of this wonton soup making machine; it's amazing what people will do for good Chinese fonosonalinguagrams, known in some circles as the dreaded fortune cootie, burrowing in the sweaty parts for small coins, but not verifying the existence of pockets before you start rummaging around in piles of chocolate-covered futons, searching for the meth you left there the previous week. "I've been sleeping entirely too westerly for too long", he said. My nocturnal Feng Shui is all fubar, and I have to stay awake until I can get myself resonating a different frequency. Maybe if I ate this tuning focaccia, that tasty bread that gives a middle C when you bifurcate the crust with incisors, and then rings a solid 440 A wheat bolstered, when toastered, blast of tone that sweetens the pot, although we all know that too many cooks spoil the brothers fun when they go filluping along. Meanwhile the snark was a dot com reject, just barely scary enough for the average investigator, trying to figure out what the kids did with all that cash, and what about the receipts for all that cream or sugar for the caffiene that's gonna be needed to edit this long winter's tale of impassioned spurts of interest and spells of lackluster apathy that comprise the local response to world events. We couldn't even get 'em all to regurgatate the Company line, that it was a lone shooter, and the man on the grassy knighthood was conferred as a reward for great contributions in his fiduciary responsibilies to those that held him by the bagel, with a schmeer, please, and a slice of oncological biopsy proven to be belgian mad cow, and hold the antrax, please. I don't feel parting the Red Sea was Moses' best true love may be overrated, but at least it gives you something to hope for when it's time to finish your taxes and pay the pizza delivery boy. After all, it really builds one's appetite slaving over a caliper measuring tiny loopholes for investment schemes which require sizeable offshore accumulations of mineral deposits, some of which may prove vanity is a socially acceptable chaise lounge, her bathing suit coley drapped over the back, the suntan local color is all well and good, but these fake cobblestones go too father because mother has eaten her share. Now she's ready to shape her buttocks and tone her thighs, with this magnificent new prehistoric goo she bought down at the Whole Foods Market. Read the warmongering utterings of the capitalist running dog leader of the so-called Free Western Division Frito Lay distributors convention, held last week in Cucumber Valley, famous across the land for cukes in all sorts of shapes and colors, in particular the Cuke Uke, that little four stringed wonder so popular among the coastal tribes known as bass players. Stand up or play it across their crotch, these string pluckers are testy sons of bitches, and if they think you're making fun of theater absurd. In fact, they'll use their strings to tie you up and haul you to the poetry department of a major university whose name is never said out long enough to establish a meter, let alone establish a reply to all of those who have abandoned Hyphenation 11 for the game in words. Shurely shome mishtake, offisher, replied the drunken pirate captain, brandishing his pen and signing the proffered form with a frank admission that he had indeed been remiss. But it's not the wallaby's fault. It's never the wallaby's fault. At least that's what the wallaby always stands on to reach the cork train at Heuston station. But exactly when the wallaby's epicenter began to shake was a short, or indeed long, almost a month, of lull in this topic. It's sometimes hard to remember that it's here, with all the other hullabaloo going on. Why, I can remember a time when the WELL wasn't hyphenated at all! Bryan Higgins added hyphenation to the default education of all lefthanders here, but finally granted it to those of the redundant type typists with tight tights and tuna tortas in their trousers, testing their teachers' telnet capabilities. Curiously, the entire procedure was not all that effective. When it was over, the puppet was still in the White House, watering the other plants, singing "Yankee Dog, You Die!" without understanding the subtext and ignorant of the organization usually associated with the song by the media. Straddling the largest of the potted plants, he began another session of tele-ttherapy with his shrink, who resides in Tierra del Fuque Yew, named after a mysterious series of lights that surround an old tree on an ancient mound. Legend has it that if you knock hard enough on the hollow tree, an echoing "FAAAAAAAAART!!!" will come forth (but then in Spanish), and then it will say "Forget it, Jake, it's Chinatown." other classic lines from other motion sick, gonzo journalisti ranting "The hog is out of the tundra and into the partially frozen lake, which emptied directly into my soup." Horrified, for I had never before entered the sort of virtual world I now found myself confronting, I removed my modem implant and was rewarded with a vile piercing sound that led to me also jinx the smoke detector and the microwave oven, both complaing bitterly anent the Palm Pilot's sudden discovery that it could give imperious infrared commands to dang-all about itself. The kitchen alone was rapidly filling with muffled screams and the faint, rancid scent of burning transylvanians. What, morning already? Close the flippin' drachma window, we're sold out! And anyway, whoever thought it was a good implementation of Outlook? Waitress! Two hot Javas and a double escape sequence will prevent the latest virus from sending email to evil doers and good alike. Both hands reached up and felt the empty slot in her head, but only one fumbled for the next insert as she nimbly began miming the old locked-in-a-box trick, anticipating cereal but finding living artifacts buried deep in her subconscious. Alert now, she shuffled, rotated, and dealt. Three of flippin' Clubs again. She tried again. After fourteen Threes of Clube and Teller's business card (she knew it was Teller's, it was blank), she finally got the Four of Pentacles Reversed. It was a reduction method, for assimilating gyros into an ongoing program. She balanced the remaining coffee in her system and opened the new issue of Tarot Readers Monthly, looking in vain for the article she'd subjected to repeated dangling. Bruised, and out of line, the magazine edged to the open window and screamed, "Get your fingers off my backpedal, you morons!" A cat across the street yowled in pain and frustration as the window opened even wider, causing a hurtling mass of peanut butter to splat in the cat's face, puzzling everyone, because a marimba player beat the rhythm. Beat the rhythm. Beat the record for Not Being Invited to Recording Sessions Without Actually Being A Banjo Player. "If I had only learned accordion, I would be Brian Eno today," he thought, taking a long drag on a short ciggie and then dousing it in his coffee mug. "Or Neanderthals. All the good jobs are taken by neanderthals. There's just no place in this world for your average guy anymore." He waddled away slowly, a slight trail of slime oozing out of the tip of his third tiara, acquired when he was crowned King of the SimpComps, down at the j.p.'s office in Reno. No place, he thought again to himself, for the average . . . what was it he'd said? Gay? Goy? Goiter, that's what is was, and her thinking it was some alien baby from the probing." The garrulous middle-aged woman paused to sip a cup of lukewarm coffee. "And after the doctor took it out, she kept yelling, "My baby, my balloon! The dingo abstracts are lovely this time of year." The guide paused. "Now, over here, you'll see a grouping of wild angel-headed hipsters, re- enacting that classic poem by Allen Greenspan... "Money... Yes, MONEY. Buy me ALL the King's Horses, and ALL the King's Men. Hell, buy me the KING. I can do that, you know... I control the world's money, and I control YOKO. Give me what I want or I'll turn up the voter booth chads falling, falling, covering everything like wisps of glistening fairy snagged in fairy thistles on the side of Elf Hill, struggling for seven years and a day to escape, until finally the Queen of Asphalt bore down on them like a Mac Trabant, the special models made in 1987 for the East German market, notable for their three-inch screen and "lightweight" mouse cast from a single block of iridescent toothpaste, for that Ultraglowing Smith, who along with his constant companions Vitamin- Fortified Jones and "Babe" the Blue Ox single-handedly dredged the Euphrates and made the Great Rift Valley so as to have an outdoor latrine, yet for all their Cinerama savoir-faire each one of them was secretly lonely, alone on the slopes of legend, because they had not left the building with Elvis. And who could blame the mobbing fans for tearing them limb from limb for their sacreligious blankies? Embroidered all over with images of Iain Banks, David Hume, and the mysterious legend "Work Like You Were Living In The Early Days Of A Better Nation?" To say nothing of a circle of third world shamans, chanting for Rain and US Aid. They danced slowly, carefully, so as to avoid trampling the sacred canticles of St. Leibowitz, and his toroidal tribute to the tutelary Embroidered sweater pattern, which in ten easy steps will allow you or even your child to begin the exciting hobby of koine Greek. But remember. This ancient language was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to its creator, and neither its speakers nor its gods have received any royal family genes. Limited as it has been, it has successfully survived centuries with only the slightest of problems, mostly centered on the size of the Royal chin and ehidipon Society Square Dance tickets, but who wouldn't pony up to dosado beneath the shining pink brachiosaurs, forming a chorus line and, not incidentally, the Gulf of Mexico, as they pounded out the beat of "One More Saturday Night in the slipstream between fish-loving celebrants who walk the pattern while Cavalier chorusters retrace their silurian ancestry. Ontogeny, as everyone knows, -is- phylogeny running a compiled graphical interface, just as otolaryngology is philology's hardware department, and Orpheus is Offenbach with a chokehold on reality." You can see clearly from his opinions that the author was an ophidian, probably a Merovingian, in fact, what with their bees and their descent from the Holy Family and their fondness for Jerry's spacier solos and all. Ruined the whole neighborhood, really. But that's all water under the bridge at this pencils down when time is called. You may not ask anyone for hero-sized jelly-babies to clear your ears while the Great Frenchman waltzes through caverns measureless to mice or overachievers in the yardstick department. In fact, I once heard two penguins in drag complaining about how hard it is to get pantyhose in their supermarket. "Those bloody eggs!" said the first penguin. "Make you feel lilke you're kidnapping!" There was a silence, as the writer had provided no lines for Second Penguin. "Perhaps something about smelling of fish?" said the script auk helpfully, earning only a withering stare from the director and a desperate crustacean on the lunch board hoping to avoid the only options available to it at this point: death by digestion, or a slower, crueler method involving drying out on a bed of cheap wilty lettuce while waiters walk by, sneering, with their sommelier's cups danube. Flowing blue giraffes elbowing green monkeys out of the buffet line, while incompletely pickled shrimp demand more cocktails from the waiting education board, whose detailed criteria of exactly what makes up the contentless and politically correct curriculum, when bound, not only exceeds the budget for schoolbooks but seriously outweighs the entire student bastardy problem. The voters made their intentions clear, but the bordello workers came together to recreate ancient mysteries in the town square. After digging a new root cellar, the madam had discovered that the house sat on the ruins of a temple that dated back to the steam Age. Babbage Analytical Engine components and bone chads littered the floor, and against one wall was a Jacquard punch-card loom that had obviously been perverted from its intended purpose. The reek of rotting Joule-Coca, the stimulant beverage of Victorian hackers, came from an ornate gasogene, and a pile of lemur bones ritualistically inserted into the nostrils of the sacramental gummi bears. Sour Brite Crawlers squirmed realistically out of orifices and then all over the body. It was so dramatic, people stopped, jaws agape, in disgusted fascination, as mimes re-enacted the ancient snack food rites on each other. Seven! Eleven! they gestured, forming a line leading to the high pristess of the California Raisin Advisory Board.
Gail Williams (gail) Fri 10 Aug 01 09:44
the ending is superb: > It was so dramatic, people stopped, jaws agape, in disgusted > fascination, as mimes re-enacted the ancient snack food rites on each > other. Seven! Eleven! they gestured, forming a line leading to the > high pristess of the California Raisin Advisory Board.
Martha Soukup (soukup) Fri 10 Aug 01 11:53
Needs more paragraph breaks.
Gail Williams (gail) Fri 10 Aug 01 11:57
-fully one can do that on the fly while posting. Meanwhile back in the playback par-
JaNell (goldennokomis) Fri 10 Aug 01 12:00
thenogenisis, a new hyphenation bastardization was sp-
Linda Castellani (castle) Fri 10 Aug 01 12:35
Playback here, not hyphenation!
JaNell (goldennokomis) Fri 10 Aug 01 15:49
David Gans (tnf) Fri 10 Aug 01 16:15
What castle said! And by the way, as long as we're being meta for a moment, I would like to urge some of our participants to be a little more attentive to the flow of things. The game works best when the sentences come out more or less grammatically correct while the subject matter veers back and forth across many realities.
Rip Van Winkle (keta) Fri 2 Nov 01 16:48
There should be a warning -- DO NOT ATTEMPT TO CONSUME FOOD OR BEVERAGES WHILE READING A PLAYBACK -- YOU *WILL* CHOKE! On a meta level, being a new arrival who has been learning by doing, I wasn't aware of the one-line rule. I thought you just spun out the story in your particular taffy-pull of a direction, then tossed the ball to someone else with a - Anyone want to stop me before I ruin our embryonic 13?
Gail Williams (gail) Fri 2 Nov 01 17:09
I've seen the dilemma in the group lymerics topic in <words.> too.. and in haiku topics. The group composition art form is best when users pay careful attention and mimic the form, but it helps if there are not interludes of training or criticism. They are not worth it. Better to go on, be precise, and hope you convey a reasonable sense of the rules, but not be finicky in the topic itself. There's a little debate on what the rules are anyway, so it works out fine letting people decypher it, seems to me.
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