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祝日 / Permanent Vacation
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❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
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@clickmeimnotavirus
Larz Benoit pat his son on the shoulder with a nostalgic sigh. "When I look at this kid, all I can see is myself, thirty years younger, making all the right choices."
His son, Flarz Benoit, smiled squarely. "I am making my father proud," he said.
i remembered this post today
Nile Queson Neson was a grade-school bully with five hundred thousand navels. Most children might attempt to hide something like this: kids can be cruel, so you never know what sort of names one would be called. This would probably have been the case for Nile Queson Neson if he himself weren't the school bully; instead, he used his hideous deformity to frighten and victimize the other children.
One might wonder how a grade-schooler would use his five hundred thousand navels to victimize other grade-schoolers, and one might be justified in wondering that sort of thing, but at the end of the day, would one be a better person for knowing? If you knew that, would you finally be able to learn the piano like you always planned? Would you be able to learn the piano if you knew how belly buttons might be used to terrorize children?
Because we're not just a company: we're your friends. And we're not just your friends: we're your family. And we're not just your family: we're you. So we know what you did. And we know where the body is. And if you're smart, you'll pay very close attention to our instructions.
There's a species of dragon down by the wharf that helps or eats sailors depending on the phase of the moon and maybe other things. For a small fee, one of them can take a photo with, or eat, your child.
There's an abundance of ad-hoc signage covering the docks: "Beware of Dragons", "Please Remember to Tip Dragons", "Be Sure to Replace Signs upon Their Consumption by Dragons". These signs don't help because all of the surrounding population is blind and can't read them. The dragons are only blind occasionally, depending on the phase of the moon and maybe other things.
A rustic shed has recently risen out among the hills near the wharf, but nobody knows why, and moreover nobody has noticed. They can't see it. The dragons can only examine it once it reaches the docks - thankfully, it's moving that way. Unfortunately, though, dragons exist only in fantasy, and this is real life. Some might have you believe that they are all around us but only reveal themselves depending on the phase of the moon and maybe other things, but such people are probably the same ones who littered the docks with tasteless signs that no one can read.
The shed maintains an unwavering slide toward the wharf.
The shed has slipped off a dock and continues its journey.
They held practice on the school roof so they called themselves The Roofies, but they could never figure out why everyone hated their music
Conrad Elliot was a salty bureaucrat who sold microphones to birds on the side so people could hear their songs more clearly
George how is it I never see your stuff on my dash and yet you always have updates to things i want to read that I miss
step 1: post a lot. A LOT.step 2: stop posting. STOP.step 3: make one post. ONE.step 4: congratulations you punk, now people miss you. PUNK.
Not really, I'm just working on other stuff writing-wise at the moment, so whenever I feel like putting something here I decide that I should work on the other stuff instead (this explanation is a cop out because I haven't gotten very far with the other stuff either way). I'll try to do more things for you to miss, I think?(As a side note, I recently used the phrase "As a writer, I..." completely seriously when mentioning how I'm frustrated with readers assuming authors condone their characters' behaviors (especially their main character(s)), which I thought immediately afterward was totally presumptuous of me because a writer is someone who writes and I do barely that. But really, it's dumb to take a quote out of a Shakespeare play and attribute it to Shakespeare, like as something he's said. I've seen this done before.)
TIRED OF BEING BORED AND ALONE? BUY YOUR MOTHER A SNOWMOBILE, BECAUSE SHE'LL LOVE YOU FOREVER
FEEL LIKE YOU'RE MEANT FOR SOMETHING MORE BUT JUST TOO LAZY TO GET THERE? TOO BAD, HOT STUFF, YOU'RE A LOSER
DON'T FORGET TO FOREGO SHOWERING ONCE A WEEK TO REMIND YOURSELF OF THE FRAGILITY OF THE HUMAN CONDITION
THINK YOUR TOILET IS DIRTY BUT REALLY DON'T WANT TO CLEAN IT BECAUSE YOU DON'T WANT TO TOUCH SOMETHING SO DIRTY? WAY TO GO, CHAMP
DO YOU CONSIDER SCHOOLING TO BE A COLOSSAL WASTE OF TIME? NICE TRY, BUT IT'S ALL YOU HAVE
TIRED OF BEING TREATED LIKE AN ANIMAL? STOP BEING ONE
LEFT YOUR UNDERWEAR AT HOME? HOW DID YOU LEAVE YOUR UNDERWEAR AT HOME
The road was long, almost like American actress Nia Long, and being pelted by the heat, almost like anything on the receiving end of a heat pelter. Philip Luplello drove on and tried to focus on the lengthy road, but he was clearly distracted. Who would pelt American actress Nia Long with heat? Why? His side-view mirror glistened, looking warped in the sun like some kind of vertical puddle out his window that wanted more than anything for him to know that certain objects could very well be closer than they seemed to be.
"Tired of being a rotten cowlick?" read a familiar billboard as it jogged by. Philip realized that he didn't know what that meant; he'd known for seven years that he had no idea what that meant. "You know? I am tired of being a rotten cowlick," he said aloud, talking to himself like a socially inept desk lamp. Desk lamps can't talk, he thought. Lamps have never been able to talk.
It was his last delivery of the day, so it was a shame that it had to be so far away. Philip had to drive all the way there and all the way back, and as though the dust in his lungs from this ridiculously under-maintained road wasn't enough, he had to deal with billboards the likes of "Tired of being a rotten cowlick?" and "Suck on a Lizard -- Save a Life!". Philip told himself that if he ever got married and bought a small house and had a couple of children and shared birthdays and holidays and Sunday mornings with them and eventually decided with his family after a long deliberation that though the little house had kept them well they needed a little more room than it could offer, he definitely wouldn't give this area even the gift of consideration. Billboards like that would melt the brains of two beautiful kids like those. How could I ever tell them that we have to move? They love that house. So many memories.
Finally Philip arrived at his long-anticipated destination, the edge of a strange-looking neighborhood where a triplet of guys were standing in wait. "Hey Phil, the ride went all right?" one said as he walked around the driver's side.
Philip edged out of the seat and patted a couple of hairs off his shirt. "Yeah, yeah, same as always. You guys oughta talk to the city council or someone about the billboards, are those things even advertising anything?"
"What, you mean like the cowlick one? They're good billboards, man. Give this place some character."
"I already spot three characters right here," Philip joked, gesturing at the men. The silent two stayed back, looking tired. Tough crowd. He popped up the trunk and heaved out one of the boxes filled with blocks of heroin. "So, where d'you guys want it then?"
"Charlie and Thomas will gladly take those from you," said the one in the front. "Look alive, boys." He pat their backs as they took the boxes and stalked off, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a few tightly packed wads of hundreds. He handed them off to Philip, who stowed them in a neat little compartment in the vehicle, and then just kind of walked away.
Didn't even shake my hand or anything, thought Philip. Didn't say a word. Just like a lamp, really. Lamps can't talk. He climbed back behind the wheel and pulled out, driving past a billboard reading, "Filled with regret? Ask your lamp for advice!" in big, stylized letters.
0thefool replied to your post: "There must be at least fifty more people in the...
I love you, George. You’re my favorite writer
THANK!
"There must be at least fifty more people in the wreckage," said Yosher Baflilliam, leader of The Yosher Baflilliam Squad for Yosherly Baflilliament.
His right-hand man Rolf, who headed an organization called The Rolfs on the side, watched the remains of the hospital and said, "I don't think so. We must have managed to evacuate everyone beforehand. We made three sweeps."
"No," said Yosher. "There are at least fifty more." He sat down. He raised a cigar. He drew out three more. He smoked them all at once.
"Not to be mutinous, sir, but how can you be sure?"
Yosher Baflilliam made a muffled sound behind his cigars for several seconds, his slight hand gestures communicating that he was attempting to communicate.
Several days passed, and Yosher had barely moved. "Sir," said Rolf, "what exactly are we waiting for? We've combed the ruins too many times to count; the men are tired and hungry. Surely there can't be any more people here."
"There must be at least fifty more." Baflilliam dipped his hand into an entire case of cigars and took out a fistful, fit the whole thing between his lips, and smoked it feverishly.
Ten years later, the situation had not much improved. Yosher had almost certainly developed a severe lung cancer, and Rolf was just a bit miffed that he'd had to stand around all this time. He started to pace. "Sir, I'm sorry, but I have to-"
Suddenly, a middle-aged woman pushed a small boy through a hole in what was once a hospital's wall. More followed. A line of people emerged from the debris, all healthy-looking and glad to feel the sun's rays. Once they'd all made their way out, a dumbfounded Rolf had counted forty-seven. "Incredible," he whispered. "Sir, how did you-"
Yosher Baflilliam had long stopped his smoking, cigars fallen from his cheeks and strewn about the floor in front of him. There were tears rushing from his eyes. "Rolf, my compatriot, I've done you and the rest of the boys an incredible disservice. I assured you ten years ago that there would be fifty people left in there at the very least, but all we got were these forty-seven lowlives. It seems I, Yosher Baflilliam, am unfit to lead The Yosher Baflilliam Squad for Yosherly Baflilliament, and I must thereby resign from my position. I'll miss the whole lot of it."
Moved but confused, Rolf watched as a family of five cheerily climbed out of the wreckage and strode down to the ice cream shop down the block.
Due to certain laws at the time, Yosher could not be reinstated as the president of The Yosher Baflilliam Squad for Yosherly Baflilliament, as he had already resigned after serving a term. Rolf offered him a position as head of The Rolfs, but he declined, stating publicly that it would be "a fate almost certainly worse than death".
There was a stout man going by Biff McWarden whose online dating profile allowed a description of only 200 words or fewer. Taking this as a very clear challenge, Biff resolved to make his description as succinct as possible while still perfectly capturing his mentality for all the potential lovers out there. “Hi,” it read under a close-up photograph of his face from the 80’s, “my name is Biff, and I enjoy things of a certain aesthetic.”
It was two weeks without a response before Biff decided to take matters into his own hands. He scouted the site for ladies who seemed to match that aesthetic for which he looked in things. “Hello,” he messaged each, “my name is Biff, and the impression your profile gives of you matches that aesthetic of things I enjoy. Would you like to meet? I am in Philadelphia.”
It took time, but someone responded positively to Biff’s invitation. “Thank you for your kind appraisal. I am also in Philadelphia and find that your own aesthetic is much like that for which I look in things. We can meet this Sunday outside of the Liftwello apartments at five in the evening.”
Biff was excited but had to check her profile again to remember which she was. “Ah,” he thought, “so it is she.” The woman was Lorenza Liftwello - “could she be the same who runs the Liftwello apartments?” She was a little plump - “but there’s nothing wrong with that, is there?” Biff became eager for his date with a businesswoman and dreamed that night about what she’d think of him.
When Sunday had come, Biff put on his best trousers and tried to look responsible. He wondered whether or not he should bring flowers - “better not come off too strong on the first date.” He ambled over to the apartments, feeling light as air, thinking of nearby places where they could have a nice dinner. “I wonder what kind of food she likes.”
Three hours had passed outside the building. Maybe she’d stood him up. Biff hoped nothing bad had happened to her. People walking by gave him weird looks, like they knew somebody’d dumped him. “Eh, forget about them.” He patted his mouth while he yawned - “wait, that’s weird.” His mouth was sticky. He wiped his lips and looked at his hand: it was smeared red. He was wearing lipstick. Biff looked down and saw that he had on a classy dress and a pair of high heels. He smelled like lilac and his hair was piled high on his head - how long had he had that much hair?
Louis Q. Borderbelly was a wealthy detective with a lazy eye that confused people when they were around him because they could never tell where he was really looking. Those who knew him well could, though, because he was always on the search for clues: in order to tell where he was looking when conversing with him, his friends learned to deduce quickly where clues could lie, which eventually made each of them great detectives in their own right.
As it happened, Louis's arch nemesis, criminal mastermind Francis L. Storf, had a lazy eye as well, but since he didn't have any friends nothing good or bad ever came of it except for the devastation of his body image (which wasn't great to begin with).
One evening, while again thwarting Storf's plots to engage in illicit criminal activity, Louis had a small heart episode brought about by years and years of unhealthy habits like eating high-fat foods, wrestling giraffes, and paying taxes. Storf was moved with pity and gave no notice before using his magnificent Human Fusion Machine to fuse the two humans in order to save Louis's life.
Because Louis hadn't been in too much danger, all that really did was give Storf a few extra limbs and an additional lazy eye, worsening his body image still. Moreover, now Louis had no trouble finding his secret lairs, so Storf was forced to give up criminality for good; on the other hand, as a product of being fused to Louis, Storf learned to quickly identify clues in order to tell where he was looking, making him an excellent candidate for detectiveship.
praemordeo replied to your post: Neddoy Carniflos was a man with a ponytail who...
this is excellent!
Thanks, friend!! I'm glad you like it
Neddoy Carniflos was a man with a ponytail who wanted to be a writer but decided that was a bit too impractical given the market of the day. So he decided to be a literary critic, which is all well and good, except he really had no interest in reading things other people had written.
Rather than bore himself with the details of plotlines he couldn't care about and characters he couldn't relate to, he wrote the criticisms he would have liked to write - Plato's perfect Form of literary criticism, pure articles embodying the notion of critique.
"The interactions among this group eventually reveal that they all share similarly jaded views of our young planet, reminding me much of the discussions I once shared with my late wife," one read.
"We are given many different eyes with which to examine his swarthy environments," said another. "The author's grace in these respects surpasses even that of my late wife."
Neddoy realized soon that what he was writing wasn't so much criticism as it was analysis, so he just decided to stop. A local magazine, unaware that he was a dirty fraud, hired Neddoy to do a small column on style for fifty cents a word.
pheonix561 replied to your post: There was a small village on the outskirts of...
George, I don’t know if I’ve made this clear to you, but I think this form of writing is absolutely utterly brilliant and I want you to write a book like this. I’d fund it if I had the money. I’m dead fucking serious. Did you come up with this style?
well pheen, I don't think there's much about how I write this stuff that makes it a style one would have to `invent', but I did start writing like this all on my own, excepting the insights one gains into humor-writing from authors like John Hodgman and Douglas Adams
but thank you!! for your encouragement and your imaginary money