Random Things I Write Down

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Today is March 25th. Today is a holiday of boldness and new beginnings. On this date, Sauron was defeated, the Ring was Destroyed, and Gondorans celebrate a New Year, I shit you not. Today is also the wookie holiday Life Day.
In honor of Life Day, I will now boldly make this the first archived document.
In honor of Life Day, I will now boldly make a new "jots" or "random things" (or whatever this is called).
In honor of Life Day, I will now boldly display my favorite photograph of the moment, even though I've already displayed it earlier (further down the page).

In honor of Life Day, I will now boldly sing the Life Day song (to the tune of a slow version of the theme to "Star Wars").

    We celebrate a day of peace.
    A day of harmony.
    A day of joy we can all share together joyously.
    A day that takes us through the darkness.
    A day that leads us into might.
    A day that makes us want to celebrate the light.
    A day that brings the promise that one day, we'll be free to live, to laugh, to dream, to grow, to trust, to love, to be.

This is the promise of the Tree of Life.

I have recently decided that I am half in jail.

Don't ask me why.

Not because I don't know why, because I do, but just because you are legally prohibited from asking any questions. In Any Way. There is however a way to ask a question and get around the law.

Ask me this : "Are you the slave to the prime minister?"

This question will go unnoticed by the Law. Policymen and women will look awkwardly away from you and pretend they did not hear. Many will twiddle their thumbs. Others more will force their minds to focus on some unrelated thing. A pink elephant? Their next donut? Their significant others' underclothes?

I have a lover that I keep in an envelope for when Valentine's Day rolls around. She literally is a Valentine. Literally, as in like literature.

Thank you so ever much.

Mine, all mine,

Death Himself

        *********
        the next day
        *********

I have in my possession (1) a painted ape, of most docile attitude. I want to describe it as green, but can't, due to certain legalities; (2) a glass lung, or irish equivalent. (3) four enormous hole in my jug. It is with (1) that I urge a contribution in mating with (2). (3)'s intended purpose is figurehead, and I re-urge it for use with (2). Crow population, being as it is, is not a point of worry.

I have no legs with which to aid in Mel's hybernation.

Combat me,

Gigizzup

When I was a senior in high school, I wrote a play. This play garnered me much praise, and strangely enough, followers. Disciples. Man, I miss those guys.

Learn about the Children!

And tell 'em Henry sent ya!

Fortune provides the backdrop for a play, one of sorts and chances, spotlighting you and a clam sandwich. When clowns and things urge constancy to the assembled mediators, a dog whips itself and shouts of "Hot Murder!" escape the lips of children far more asleep than adults. They are eyed with bracken bars and a spongy aftereffect of their parent's pretend shavings. No one there has a beard nor hair on the legs. And there are many who find disappointment in chicken's absence from the menu provided by the play's chef. She, along with her staff, are underpaid and surly with too many eggs to hatch. Times are hard for the play's negative space, and those fate has forced to dine off-stage. I have a captain of rabbits in a garment bag of wrapped kinesthetic. Habitually, I soak it in a brown comb jar. And find the resulting confection heady and intolerable. It is strictly for business only; I am not, repeat not, deriving neanderthals' urges. I know Christ personally. He is my savior and lives in a plant grown once a year for the amusement of God. It blooms petals of silver and you will catch fever if you think to lick on them.

Please make sure we all don't die.

On winters, I have seen these such veritable bags. My uncle would keep them under his arms, and being a fair-minded man, would let his nephews peer into the opened ones, a circumstance that allows the sifting and perusing of secret dirts. They were bags of air, mostly, but some were filled with the dirt and grime from my uncle's last yesterday experience. A no tomorrow is the same as a last yesterday, he would tell us, and we would commit it to memory. When my uncle was gone, typically for good, my eldest brother would hold mock-executions for different incarnations of him. The blue uncle went first, it always did, followed by the red. Neither were accurate representations, but both died convincingly, as played by my next eldest brother and me - respectively. When my brother stood on the bed, a baseball bat became an axe in our minds. A pillowcase draped over the face - the executioner's hood. His teen-aged voice - one of a man much older and angrier. I was trained to make my associations from those formed up to that point in time, so saw a ghost where there was none. When the ghost swung the bat down to the neck, my red uncle eyes bulged and a basketball slyly replaced a severed head rolling on the carpet toward the desk, where it lay underneath until the next uncle death game came. Our brother boomed a hearty laugh at the basketball. A baby chameleon, ready for the climb, sees an obstacle of a kitchen chair. "Excuse Me, while I climb this Pit", it says. And you think it rude. You hurry to tell your siblings of the site of such a rarity. The rudeness you feel is an interjection and true delight is what you experience.

Sometimes if you wanted your brother to, say, stop harassing you, you'd state very calmly the word "Infocom", and he'd understand and retreat to his room where he'd make the G.I. Joe man, after a rigorous and death-defying aerial wrestling match with a viper commando, find the missing part of the special laser weapon in the section of the window sill behind the desk. Because the word has many meanings.

I went North. I saw a pile of leaves on the ground. I picked the leaves up. I checked my inventory. I had a pile of leaves.

DID YOU KNOW?
The words 'cinematic dogmatic monochromatic melodramatic tragic asthmatic' are another way to say Darth Vader?
There is a train station in Wales called 'Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwll-Llantysilio-gogogoch'?
My name is an anagram for Ken Shoyster, Esther Nykos, Tony Shesker, and Rene Shotsky. My dad is Moses J. Keats. My mom is Ashton Stepeskie.
I am so scared of THIS! Dolls?!
But this is really pretty interesting and delightful indeed.

I joined a street gang. We are pretty hard. We are what which is known as.. the Bees of Beelzebub.

Yes, we are satanic. Not only are we delinquents and thugs, we are also devil-worshippers. Our mascot who appears in our graffiti is a demonic horned bee. Right now there's just the Hive here in Austin but maybe there will be a Swarm in the East Coast, so look out for the devil bee on the walls of your underground transports. My name in the gang is Buzz-Buzz, or B.B. Gun, or Double B, or Dubba-Bubba. When I sign my name in graffiti though you will probably not be able to read it as we use a sort of code.

We aren't just criminals. We also produce music. Our current band name is "the Beezles" and we sing gangster rap song cover versions of Beatles ditties. But sometimes we do original work (still gangsta rap, of course). Here's a snippet:

WE THE ONLY BEES THAT DON'T HAVE A QUEEN
   WE ARE WORKERS FOR SATAN, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN
   LET'S JUST SAY WE GET BZZZY
   EVERY DAY, EVERY NIGHT
   CHECK OUT OUR SCARY VIZZAGE
   AND WATCH US DELIGHT
   IN PLAYIN' ALL YA'LL FOOLS WHO GOT NO CLUES
   WHO GET STUNG, STEP IN DUNG, AND HAVE TO SWITCH SHOES.
   CUZZ WE BEE:
   STINGIN' & SINGIN' & BRINGIN' IN THE DOUGH
   & BUZZTIN' OUT DA BIZZNESS FOR EVERY GIRL AND EVERY HO
   CUZZ ALL WE'S BEEZ EVER WANTED WUZZ SOME HONEEZ, YO!
   ...
   Bee-otch!

Yeah, I know. It needs work. But this stuff is all new to me.

Oh the fun we had.

Wow. We were both wrong:

gape:
1. to fasten softly
2. to flip vertically
3. to fidget unconditionally
4. to forget unceremoniously
5. to affix to fissures
6. to choke on hubris
7. a greenish hued ape
8. a greenish hued apple
9. an ape that produces such apples from its mouth

"I took the idiot-manchild into my palm and stared into its mult-faceted dimensiona."

I heard that just a minute ago said by three small girls in unison at the Chicago State Fair, 1963, in a booth where you could get goldfish, next to an abandoned hot dog stand. Who knew?!

Larry the Horse is not my mother. My mother has tires and legs. Like yours, she travels east but it is understandable that you would think she travels south (when unconsciously on the phone). A nest of apples is my face and it is me and my mother. Legs are NOT lines. To understand my mother, one must first compare my representation. We need haircuts but the barber is absent. White space makes a head. My father is a random mark in void.

Originally all of these people were on my Hate List. But now I just think they are listed in Who's Who 1994 :

* Buggy Mermaid - -
Reptilian in type, but not in habit, Odgar Foots (pronounced "Hotchins") is an avid collector of imported wines and deported sailors. He has defected from his native country of Latvia no less than twelve times, but considers the sixth time to be his best. "I really defected that time. You should have seen it." He enjoys reverse fishing, a sport little-known in the West. "It involves casting your lure up into the air, and making sure it gets caught in a tree or a low-flying plane. I like it." But despite his animosity towards the weak-minded, Mr. Foots is weak-minded himself, a fact he categorically denies unless severely tortured. "Aaaah! That hurts! Okay, okay. I'm "weak-minded". Whatever. Now will you please stop poking me with hot sticks?" Next year, Odgar Foots is planning on a weekend trip to his alma mater, an abandoned school we found for him, just so that he could say he had somewhere fancy to go for a weekend trip. Never wanting to stay at the same place at the same time, he now stays at four different locales during eight different years. Right now he's got a little flat in 12th Century London. "Yeah, but the flat isn't 12th Century. Nor is it located in London", says Odgar, an alleged Pisces.

* Potted Dwellow - -
Ivey Stanplick, the ambivalent overseer, is by no means, a "mean customer". She gave digital watches to impoverished infants and told them they were "time-talking toys". No arrests were made, but the police did make a point of expressing their interest. "She shows a lot of promise", said Sgt. 788-0, "maybe one day she'll beat me at cheese chess." Although her roots are shrouded in dirt and clumps of mud and vegetation (maybe a rabbit burrow or two), she had quite comprehensible beginnings. She was born in a tiny villa on the back of a large octopus named Isaam. It wasn't long before her mother recognized her for what she was: an average-sized baby. Born into a family of hermetic druids, she later abandoned her faith and turned to the more mundane, secular career of mushroom modelling. Her parents re-adopted her at seeing her meticulous urban ways, in the hopes of steering her back to the Fold. Their plan failed, as she has recently "de-adopted" herself with the help of her husband, a robotic turkey lawyer whose name is subject to some doubt (he goes by "Evans"? (highly unlikely)). Being a successful mushroom model hasn't changed her much, she assures the public. "I still like my bagels lightly toasted and stomped on several times a day by my two beautiful children." The children of which she speaks, two rambunctious eight-year old boys and a slightly more rambunctious ninety-year old woman, do not in fact exist (as of press-time). Every other morning she gets up and displays her mushrooms to the public. And on the other mornings while still asleep, she gets a standing ovation from a public nearby, but not hers. Since she is not modelling during these times, she never becomes aware of how much she means to the fans (of other people).

* Cave-dwelling Mayoral Candidate - -
Invisible to all but the fewest pine-cones, Nancy Rittical, is a marine souffleist and professional sonneteer. But not by choice. "I never thought I'd end up this way. It's all been a horrible disappointment to me." We sympathize. But life wasn't all burgundy peaches and soiled water for Nancy. Back when she was in highschool, she was an all-state champion for chucking large ceramic lithographs of Margaret Thatcher at criminals. She credits her experiences in the school gymnasium as some of her best. "Man. Like this one time, Ernie Pawzitch brought a lawnmower to class and he left it there." We sympathize. Owing her failure in her adult life to a bad case of "wanting to just sit around and do little, if anything", Nancy is happy to be adopting five children next month as part of her company's annual "Let's all adopt five children" Month's activities. She is pleased, as this will mean that more than one person will probably end up knowing her on a first-name basis. We hope her children aren't rambunctious.

* Fast-acting Kerpluckity - -
Hardcore Hassel Lamont-Luckynerd invented the prom dress in 1997 at an indeterminate age. Royal scientists have described his face to be oblong in shape, citing it as "most reminiscent of a human's face". Appropriately enough, Hassel was born in Shramingham, New Shramingham - a bustling sea port situated neatly between two mysterious masonic lodges (nicknamed "Ed" and "Monster Duck" by the local folk) in the Saherra Desert (not to be confused with its more famous African nephew). His parents, Maureen and Maureen 2, were underground rocket testers. Needless-to-say, their careers failed early on, as they discovered the fires necessary to launch their rockets were a little ineffective covered in 15 tons of dirt. They loved little Hassel dearly and didn't begrudge him for his squat, unshapely body. They overlooked numerous shortcomings in their child such as his belly, which normally reaches a decent size and shape in other humans; but in Hassel's, unfortunately, was somewhat roundish and pronounced. Also, his eyes sometimes squinted in bright sunlight, his hands clasped things not unrarely, and his teeth were less than white. But his parents ignored these flaws and loved him all the same. They really should have been looking a little more closely. Hello, people! Knock-Knock! Big, Freaky-Boy over here! At the tender area behind his ears (just near the earlobes), Hassel learned to count. This was a big deal for everyone within a three-foot radius around him. Turned out Hassel was the only one (a wandering housefly just barely missed making the cut). Hassel didn't just stop with the manipulations of numbers; he eventually learned the alphabet as well, but experiments with adding and multiplying letters ended in failure. He just couldn't get the E to carry the G. Giving up abruptly one day was just the tip of the iceberg. An iceberg that slowly melted, thus making the tip all malformed and wet. To this day, Little Hassel Lamont-Luckynerd is a state-appointed state appointer. He appoints states to their appropriate nations. He would like to thank "just any random person at all in the world, like maybe even some dude in Oklahoma on the street; even a nun or some shit" for making all his dreams come true.

I have a friend who has a similar name to me. We met at a conference for people named Henry. He and I both wanted to be writers. Now he's a mayor! Funny world.
Anyway, he's seen Bahrakhen and has been corresponding with the Institute for Norvadic Studies. And the Institute has posted his correspondences!
I think the conversation is ongoing so I'll post here when there's an update.

This movie's going to be big.
Brennan and I are going to make it.
It is called MOON MAN: ECLIPSE OF THE APOCALYPSE
I am not proud of this, but it will put all of you TO SHAME.
Sorry 'bout that.

Making the movie requires a four step process :

1. Create "Elvis's Tea Room" -- Soon to be major chain of restaurants. Think Elvis. Think Tea Room. And you're thinking solid gold, my friends!
A Menu of Champions to dictate your appetite - be sure to try "Kelly's Three-day-old Soup" - the marketing ploy of marketing ploys!
2. Align ourselves with Bollywood -- I have relatives in India. I think we can make the connection!
3. Buying pizza with coupons -- Any profits we make from either the Tea Room or Bollywood must be used for MOON MAN, and not for non-movie personal gain. With one exception : occasional pizza. But coupons must be used.
4. Seduce David Bowie -- I'm not sure what this will do, but I think it will help.

The four steps will fund our trip to MOVIE COLLEGE! Yay! Movie College will pay for itself, and we will be able to make MOON MAN: ECLIPSE OF THE APOCALYPSE from what we've gained!

Check out the MOON MAN page for news about the movie's plot, as it is created!

Back in December, I was commissioned to write a "Poem of Sadness and Dispare [sic]".

Some thoughts:

I have the lips of a thousand thrice-twisted elevator women. Just thought I'd let you know.

I wonder if God made monkeys just so that we could all have a good laugh. I can't see any other purpose.

I still say it's possible to make rope out of something other than the sorts of things people have been making rope out of.
I mean, let's give it a try, people. Don't give up so quick.

I realized I'm not really fat so much as dumb.

Tomorrow I'm getting the index finger on my right hand replaced with a robot claw. The surgeon says that the claw's pretty big so they may have to remove my other fingers so that it can fit. Whatever.

I found a frozen monk in my wall. I think he must have been doing some kind of ancient monk trick to walk through my wall, and then he accidently got stuck. No idea how he got frozen though.

Kermit the Frog never had any kids. I guess things didn't work out with Miss Piggy?

My brother told me he's now officially obsessed with the process of raising a special breed of sheep called a Spottish Ham. He bought a farm in Massachusetts and plans to move there asap. He says he'd appreciate my support but if I won't give it, he won't care.

I hate these new breakfast cereals they are making for the new generation of kids. Did you see these? You're expected to fashion a spoon to eat the cereal using only the items found in the box. I tried it out. Got a little blue action parachute man, a package of skittles, and a tube of glue. How am I supposed to make a spoon from that? It sucks.

I have been looking into curdling. I don't see why I too can't be curdled.

How 'bout some poems 'bout newts? Why not?

Madam Gingerbell advised Emperor Norton I on matters of Imperial Importance.

Wanted: one set of BONES belonging to a Mrs. Lady Wickersham.

The husband Donabald will reward the locator with one million dollars. The bones were last seen with a Ms. Lady Wickersham of Newport, Rhode Island, not-to-be-confused with the owner of the bones, who is of New York City, New York. Lady Wickersham, the "Rhode-Islander", as she has been referred to in the press, is believed to have taken the bones originally because she thought they were hers. She has since read, but chosen to ignore, thousands of angry letters from fans of the "New-Yorker" (rightful bone-owner) that point out her mistake. In a graffiti scrawl on a subway platform wall, she wrote, "The Bones are Mein [sic]. Catch me!" With that, she promptly disappeared from her Rhode Island address and is currently at-large.

Many fans, fraud-bashers, and opportunistic gold-hunters took up the call and have been disguised throughout the cities of the northeast in order to find her and take back the New York City bones.

You, too, can become a bone-hunter! ...a Rhode-Islander Finder!

Here is all you need to know:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~The Characters in the Case~

VICTIMS:

Lady Wickersham (of New York City, New York) : nicknamed "the New-Yorker" also, "the Mrs.", aristocrat, actress, rightful bone-owner, with world-wide following; Her bones were stolen at a hotel in Maine. Rumored to weep daily on account of her lost bones; has no love for husband, but boundless amount for fans (would marry one if proposed to).

Sir Donabald : nicknamed "Yankee Boy", husband to Lady Wickersham (N.Y,N.Y.), knighted incorrectly by President Clinton, very wealthy (despite economy), wants his wife's bones back; Rumored to be heir of plastic empire, also: a direct descendant of an actual dinosaur that lived 66 million years ago (DNA data proves it).

Inspector Pryvutz : police officer currently in charge of missing bones case in New York City, New York; incompetent and unkempt, but still a nice person; Rumored to be in love with both Lady W's and has conflicting loyalties, often disguises as plainclothes civilian on the off-chance he'll catch the thief and can fool Donabald into rewarding him with the money.

VILLAINS:

Lady Wickersham (of Newport, Rhode Island) : nicknamed "the Rhode-Islander" also, "the Miss", young, daring, intrepid adventuress, but a bone-napper and wanted criminal, currently on the run, or in hiding; She mistakenly took another woman's bones at a hotel in Maine; then, realizing her mistake, chose to make it a crime, and officially stole the bones in August of this year. Rumored to be Donabald's mistress, daughter, gardener, hired assassin (sometimes all at the same time), has personal symbol of hourglass; prone to acts of vandalism and aggrandizement.

Dooley : Short for "Doolittle", parrot; rumored to be companion of Lady Wickersham (N, R.I.), has red plumage. Favorite things to say: "Keep your temper", "W'e're all made [sic] here", and "Curiouser and curiouser!"; may be used as hostage for trade. Rumored to be a pigeon.

I would like to know the answer to this riddle :

"The 1234567 doctors were 123 4567 to operate, because they had 12 34567."

did i ever tell you i have shaolin fists? i do. not many people have them. i think it has something to do with kung fu. i should probably look into this... after all, i have shaolin fists and i don't know even what they do. talk about resources going unutilized, am i right? just tell me : am i right? because i think i am. i might as well be using the gifts that have been bestowed upon me, or at least know what they are.

i'm not sure what much use shao lin fists are. i probably won't end up using them that much anyway. i'm not going to get into any kung fu fights probably.

i do got them though. no denying it.

man i'm tired.

Over a year ago, I wrote a story about Furnitures the Great Brown Oaf and his friends called "the yummy something".
It's the first short story I ever wrote, so please excuse it (from P.E. this afternoon).

This one comes to you from Marcie Clemensdale of Oat Grove, NM...

I spin out clones on a daily basis and I'm grateful for it. But there are less fortunate people out there that can't get their clones out as quickly as people like me and my ilk. We call these people "morons", and I'm no exception. I hate them. I've only met one of them (not intentionally), and this story is about our clandestine exchange. It was October 1984 and I was doing what I don't normally do : walking around outside at night by myself. I had a large entourage of fresh clones at my heels (many of them crawling, due to the Feet Censures of the era), so I felt well protected and suitably nourished emotionally. One of them, a version identical to me in all ways except an inability to furrow the brow, asked me pleasant questions about the day's events, which I proudly answered. I was distracted and therefore didn't notice the figure of a little boy creeping up the sidewalk towards me. I didn't see him reach a small pincer into my chest and squeeze. The intimate action had a paralyzing effect on me and I froze. My clones, on the other hand, could still utilize their motility; they silently raised their arms (those that had them anyway) in unison. The child shrieked and coughed. It looked weak. In my dazzled state, I concentrated on memorizing the boy's hat signature, knowing full well that urchins were coded and organized strictly within the federal child-bins before release. With the right input sig., this boy could be put right back where he came from immediately. I hasten to add at this point that I fully admit to being a "product of my age". I was 19 at the time and fully living out my socio-cultural role-reputation of a "prejudiced twenty-minus-one". You can imagine my youthful surprise when I noticed the boy was not wearing a hat! Furthermore, it wasn't a boy at all, but an unusually large insect. The size of the bug confused me until I realized with great surprise that it was not in fact large at all, but actually quite small and traditionally scaled. Further study of the boy allowed me to conclude that it wasn't even there at all, and that I was simply imagining it. Once I had calmed down and could look around me with my senses intact, I could finally detect that there was in fact a boy there in my immediate environs, wearing a hat and squeezing my chest with his outstretched claw-like fingers.

My clones, now with arms akimbo, formed the Barrel. For those not in the know, the Barrel Posture is a defensive measure used temporarily for hunger. One clone can form a Barrel, and more than two can; but not two. Two clones cannot form a Barrel. I was lucky on this October night for I did not have two clones with me: I had a dozen and a half. Three of them, I'll grant you, were my friend Bill, but I count Bill as a clone because of the loose scriptments set forth in the '81 mandates, and also, because I was a young person living alone in China and these sorts of things happen to the likes of me all the time and with no recourse. At any rate, my clones were Barreling and making music. I stood back to let them satiate for the boy. Without warning, the boy spoke:

"Please, marm. Please. Can you spare a clone?"

I reeled back in horror. This boy was not a clone? The thought coursed shots of revulsion through my veins. So this was on of those "morons" that the men liked to joke about at the local bar, I mused. How did he come to meet me here, and why? Perhaps I misheard him. Or was this farce? I tested him:

"Go straight home. Your mother calls you."

He stared at me blankly, looked around him. His face betrayed his confusion.

"No, marm. For I have no mother. I am only twice."

So it was true, I thought, true that a "moron" was talking to me. I did what any sensible person would do, I announced my hatred:

"I hate you. Leave this place."

He did. And I laughed at him as he went. The clones, still Barreling, were appropriately sad. I kicked one of them in the shins and laughed harder. One of the Bills gave me a disapproving look. Later, I reported him to Bill, threatening to call Flat Caves if he didn't get the problem fixed. A clone of me, outfitted with a surger's mask, gave me a high-five and attempted a smile. It pleased me. The other clones would learn from this one. When we returned to my house, I stepped into the parlor, closed the door, and leaned against the wall. I was content. No one would know of my run-in with the moron twice-boy. And yet, what an experience it was.

Years later, I would tell the story to anyone who would hear it. I sewed words from it into my nation's flags and inserted references to it into my poetry and local breakfasts. I am more proud now, as a result. The pride produced no swelling, I am more than happy to report.

****
Marcie Clemensdale is an old lady for the Parmesha Transfer.

My good friend Brennan has a parakeet named Dude.
I wrote a poem about how she wouldn't eat her food when he first got her.
I kind of exaggerated some bits at the end.

Please follow these simple rules:

Every Man shall obey civil Command; the Captain shall have one full share and a half in all Prizes; the Master, Carpenter, Boatswain and Gunner shall have one Share and quarter.

If any Man shall offer to run away, or keep any Secret from the Company, he shall be marroon'd with one Bottle of Powder, one Bottle of Water, one small Arm and shot.

If any Man shall steal any Thing in the Company, or game, to the Value of a Piece of Eight, he shall be marroon'd or shot.

If at any Time we should meet another Marrooner (that is Pyrate) that Man that shall sign his Articles without the Consent of our Company, shall suffer such Punishment as the Captain and Company shall think fit.

That Man that shall strike another whilst these Articles are in force, shall receive Mose's Law (that is 40 stripes lacking one) on the bare Back.

That Man that shall snap his Arms, or smoak Tobacco in the Hold, without a cap to his Pipe, or carry a Candle lighted without a Lanthorn, shall suffer the same Punishment as in the former Article.

That Man that shall not keep his Arms clean, fit for an Engagement, or neglect his Business, shall be cut off from his Share, and suffer such other Punishment as the Captain and the Company shall think fit.

If any Man shall lose a Joint in time of an Engagement he shall have 400 pieces of Eight; if a limb 800.

If at any time you meet with a prudent Woman, that Man that offers to meddle with her, without her Consent, shall suffer present Death.

I have a plush CTHULHU! of my very own. His name is Diego. And he lives in my car. You can see the HATE OF AGES in his eyes; he's so cute!

I recently became fascinated with a memory I have of an episode of the Smurfs, entitled "The Astrosmurf". I think it had a profound effect on me as a child.

      A smurf named Dreamy Smurf (other sources indicate he was named Astro Smurf) dreams of going to another planet. So he builds a space ship. The Smurfs all know he'll never succeed. But he's determined. So on the day of the big launch, THEY DRUG HIM WITH A MAGIC CLOUD OR SOMETHING. And he falls asleep. The Smurfs then disassemble the spaceship, throw Dreamy on a stretcher, and very uncharacteristically have this HUGE EXODUS to some distant volcanic land. I mean they pick up all their belongings and just MOVE AWAY. It's a monumental community-shaking event. On the way there the Smurfs ask Papa Smurf "is it far?" and he replies "Not much farther, my little Smurflings" until finally they annoy him so much with their constant questioning and prattling that he replies angrily "YES IT IS FAR!"
      When they arrive in the volcanic land, Papa Smurf doles out this potion which changes everyone's skin color to a bright orange, blackens their hair, and gives them spears and hides to wear. He explains that they are now "Swoofs", and NOT Smurfs. Other sources indicate they were not Swoofs at all, but "Schlips". (Note: This may be the preferred European term for Swoofs.) The Swoofs are supposed to be aliens from another planet, but I think in other episodes they are indicated to be a primitive original race of Smurfs and Papa Smurf derives much wisdom from their ancient ways. Anyhow, everyone's now a Swoof in this new barren volcanic land. They set up camp and reassemble the space-ship, throwing the drugged-up Dreamy back into his cockpit, just like he was before he took off. He wakes up, thinks he's landed on another planet, meets the Swoofs, who he's convinced are aliens, and is amazed and delighted his dream of space travel has come true.
      The Smurfs as Swoofs all play their parts well. They act primitive and alien. They give Dreamy tests to see if he's worthy and Papa Smurf is very gruff and strict, but it's an act. The tests are rigged, too. Like they make Dreamy think he's doing a good job, and is all super-strong, but they secretly attach a bird to the rock he threw and stuff like that (okay this is just what I remember, it could be inaccurate). So Dreamy's all happy. I'm pretty sure there's some romance between Dreamy and the Swoof-Smurfette, who I guess is Swoofette (or Schlipette). I think the aim of the tests they give him is to see if he can marry her, or maybe it's just to see if he can be accepted into the tribe. I was always weirded out by the Smurfette romance though. I mean.. what happens when things go back to normal,and they're all Smurfs again? Is Smurfette insincere, putting on an act because Papa Smurf made her? That's creepy that he'd make her do that. I don't know. So anyway, I forget the end of the story but Dreamy misses his Smurfy home so they drug him up again, disassemble the spaceship and head back to their Village (would have been a good opportunity for Gargamel to have Azrael there waiting for them, but no). When he wakes up again, he thinks he's landed safely back on Earth. Everyone wants to hear his stories of interstellar travel. The Smurfs feign ignorance and enthusiasm. And Dreamy is oh so happy... the fool! (?)

I have a snippet from one source today:

'Clones Make Good Sense', a treatise on Normatives in Creative Production
-----
by Ed Cris

When the Our Lady (Paula Undergreg) wrote "I don't think I need to tell you, clones make good sense" in the Summer of our Seventh Year, the congregations of aware producers throughout the world realized after much deliberation that she was right -- she did not need to tell us; we knew it already. And it is in the knowing that so many of our practitioners succeed before trying. Thus the Pre-Try movement was born. We [they] immortalize those moments found before making attempts in the fashion agreed upon by scholarly authorities. Like cultures of bygone days, we make divine our smaller mysteries. A clone is more than an extension of one's self. It is a whole self. The idea of the Whole in iterative reality is not new to scholarly authorities or general producers. But even the Our Lady (Paula Undergreg) would be bemused by its use today. She saw clones as benevolent catalysts of sense magic. And intrinsic in her terms were aspects of extension and piece-oriented architecture. Wholeness would seem to negate the moment. Today we are less bloodless in our interaction. We [not they] compromise, seeking to coalesce the piece with the whole and in-so-doing, honor the Our Lady (Paula Undergreg) and perhaps amuse her a little. We hope the corners of her mouth are turned upward just-so, revealing depressed dimples, that her eyes betray feelings of some mirth, and that her teeth become unbridled and bared - their even whiteness an anathema.

Everyone should go buy this book now!
American in Khadi: The Definitive Biography of Satyanand Stokes

My good friend Emily met the great Daniel Clowes himself, and he signed the flyer she used in her study for her dissertation. Apparently, he wants her to send it to him when she's finished. And he was sincere. What a guy!

George Orwell is known for quite accurately predicting the future (like in "1984") and quite accurately (albeit allegorically) describing the past and present ("Animal Farm"), and so it should come as no surprise at all that he predicted me.

That's right, Me. He did it in his book, "Down and Out in Paris", with the character named Henri. Sound familiar? That's because my name is Henry. But it gets even more uncanny. I'll let you judge for yourself. Was George Orwell a psychic? I think the magic eightball is nodding and giving a thumb's up to that one!

******************************

"Or there was Henri, who worked in the sewers. He was a tall, melancholy man with curly hair, rather romantic-looking in his long, sewer-man's boots. Henri's peculiarity was that he did not speak, except for the purposes of work, literally for days together. Only a year before he had been a chauffeur in good employ and saving money. One day he fell in love, and when the girl refused him he lost his temper and kicked her. On being kicked the girl fell desperately in love with Henri, and for a fortnight they lived together and spent a thousand francs of Henri's money. Then the girl was unfaithful; Henri planted a knife in her upper arm and was sent to prison for six months. As soon as she had been stabbed the girl fell more in love with Henri than ever, and the two made up their quarrel and agreed that when Henri came out of jail he should buy a taxi and they would marry and settle down. But a fortnight later the girl was unfaithful again, and when Henri came out she was with child. Henri did not stab her again. He drew out all his savings and went on a drinking-bout that ended in another month's imprisonment; after that he went to work in the sewers. Nothing would induce Henri to talk. If you asked him why he worked in the sewers he never answered, but simply crossed his wrists to signify handcuffs, and jerked his head southward, towards the prison. Bad luck seemed to have turned him half-witted in a single day."

          RECEIVE MY BOON
    cull a gift from the treasury, sir

   You shall have thy weight in concubines
    And if your lordshipness declines
    I'll have you fitted with bovines.
    I'll strap you to their great behinds
    And watch as your new suit confines.
    The view of you with cows combines
    to make me want to erect shrines
    The sight, with no doubt, far outshines
    the gods' attempts at set designs.
    If so inclined, you can wear swines.
    We dipped them in fermented wines
    Be mindful of their sweat - it blinds
    You'd rather have the concubines?
    Oh please consider changing minds.
    Remember there are other kinds
    of animals our tailor finds.
    How about some porcupines?

I'm pretty sure I mentioned the Clone Liver last night. Here's a story a friend of mine told me about its origin. It's more of a folk-tale; I really doubt its validity:

In the early 16th Century, scientists in Europe pretending to be soldiers managed to get within 30 feet of Queen Ilsbette of Nosc. This was, here-to-fore, an impossibility. In the past, clones of the scientists had been erected and planted up to three feet from the Queen's footfalls, but said clones were prone to motivation by repulsion. Additionally, clones of the soldiers they were impersonating turned out to be frauds and were usually discharged by commanding officers. By not using clones, the scientists discovered that proximity could be reached if one were to dress in military garb. This was not without its difficulties. The climate at the time was adamantly opposed to the use of non-clones as non-soldiers. Angry onlookers would insist with brass basins, gesturing threateningly, but ambiguously, towards them. Many of the scientists became afraid and, fearing the mysterious brass basin's purposes, would fling themselves upon them and lie in them... speculating that, in order to conquer their fears, they must first fling themselves upon them and lie in them. They were proven correct. But their boldness nullified their participation in the proximity study. "Only the meek shall inherit the earth", it was widely believed... and a bold person is automatically setting themselves up for failure in all walks of life. The shy and meek have the best chance at any form of success (as there exists an eventuality that at least some of them will one day rule the world).

Anyway, these scientists (those that were meek enough not to jump in brass basins) were being bold, however, in not using their clones. Their attempts at monarchical proximity were doomed from the start. It was the meek actions of Peretto Giselba that saved the day (as the meek are prone to do). Fearing the wrath of the Queen and not wanting to do anything about it, he fashioned a stick of Cinisal Water from the back of the neck. Using the clamps, he noticed that when DNA gets smoother, it gets, what cloners would later call, "murderous". This inertness, Giselba realized, could be soothed and maintained in a full sack. He did so, and tucked it behind his ear before putting on the ridiculous soldier costume. And thus, the first Clone Liver was born. Its nurturing and subsequent independence would happen much later. A couple weeks, tops.

My friend Chad recently moved to Liverpool and wanted to meet new people. So he took out a "heart-to-heart" in a local paper.
Wish him luck!

Back in July 2001, memepool reviewed my Furnitures web-site. Here it is, for posterity's sake:

Theory has it that a test-tube DNA meld between Barney the dinosaur, a proto-Teletubby, a random mix of Sid and Marty Krofftian genes, and a small scraping from Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo could possibly produce a being like Furnitures, the Great Brown Oaf. This seems to be a kid's TV show...and it would be the most utterly absurd kid's show I have ever come across, but I can't find any broadcast times or dates, or stations. Maybe it's happening on a cable network in another reality zone. (Co-stars bear distant resemblance to Johnny the Homicidal Maniac.)

Unicron has the prettiest green eyes, don't you think?
I bet most people don't take the time to notice something like that.

For a little while there I thought I was a synesthete.
I see letters and numbers in my mind with their own specific colors (for example f is orange), not like these people though.
They see colors right there in the world outside their mind. The weirdos!

Say hello to the clones of our forefathers.... a dialogue (recorded 11/01/02 within awarehouse)
~~~

CLONE: Hi! My name is Arthur Redgrave, or it would be, if I was not a clone of him.
YOU: Greetings and salutations! You are the splitting image of our ancestor.
CLONE: I cannot help it.
YOU: I don't expect you to take responsibility. I only point it out as a matter for you to consider. I want you to be aware of your own power to reproduce visually the likeness of the real Arthur Redgrave, dead these many years now. No one alive today ever laid eyes upon your face-sake. We are seeing what so many of your original's contemporaries saw during his lifetime.
CLONE: I am a mere shadow of my original. The light hit him and where it was blocked by him, there on the wall behind him, so shall I remain.
YOU: Do shadows walk amongst their master's descendants in the guise of their masters?
CLONE: Apparently.
YOU: Do shadows lie dormant in the dark? Are they then awakened in future times and made to resemble their masters?
CLONE: Everything about me is a copy of Arthur Redgrave.
YOU: You are a reproduction.
CLONE: I am a forgery.
YOU: Yet your artifice is on display. I believe, if I am not wrong, that the original Arthur Redgrave spoke no English? And here you are, fluent in English for you were raised by English.
CLONE: My tongue is not authentic?

***************

From the home notes of Stink :
~~~

Mr. Carrington does not use traditional cloning techniques. He incorporates a mixture of Northern-influenced mischangism and self-doubling. I will now let the criminal explain his crime, further absolving the jury of unnecessary feelings of guilt:

"I wear the rings, but don't need them. The center of my face is made blurred and unctuous from correct hygiene. My hand can pass through. There is a way to test-tweak the strands inside. It takes some training. My initial doubles lacked shape. Over time, I could get them more defined. Now I've reached a crispness that offends eyes. It is possible to sharpen visuals until they injure. Neophytes beware : keep on the blur. When I pull out my hand (there is no need to grasp - the double will follow), I cast it aside and to the right. So as you know, if left-handed - throw still to right. Then I crown king the double."

There can be no mistaking the urgency of the crime. If it had been less rushed, perhaps we could have guilt. But as it stands in the testimony, speed of crime adversely affects necessity of guilt-of-jury.

Parenthetically, my father would often talk fondly of the "gilt o' jurri" he and his own father cultivated and removed during the Irish plane phase of this nation's child diversions. Both he and his father were roughly the same age at the time and equally underdeveloped so it was no surprise they would escape tasks by raising guilt. Back then, actual juries were not invented, as they are today. They were made of wood and smeared generously with whatever food was served at dinner.

There is a vital importance to Mr. Carrington's deed and its influence on youth today. It is rare that followers write individualized manifestos for their leaders. What a great man he is. Here is my manifesto for him:

"We will not tolerate gum-wire. It is a drug; a poison and she is ugly. Her blanket is not patterned to our liking. Revenge is ours."

Hope he likes it.

What's a clownp?
Answer: an acronym for "Colin's 'Law and Order' Walk-on Nicely Performed".

Journey now to the City of Enchanted Blue Spoons!

Some pirate terminology :

To say Bilge! is akin to saying "B.S.!" or "durned tommyrot!"
The Caribbean buccaneers called themselves the Brethren of the Coast from 1640-1680. The next generation however didn't share their sense of fraternity.
To do something handsomely means to do it quickly.
The bottom of the sea is called Davy Jones' locker.
Eyes are called deadlights.
To dance with Jack Ketch is to hang. Jack Ketch is the hangman.
A jollyboat is a small but happy craft, a little like a dinghy, but not much.
A pirate calls his/her friend me bucko.
A captain calls his/her crew me hearties.
A man who goes on the account is turning pirate.
Scupper that! is an expression of anger or derision. It literally means "throw it overboard!". The scuppers on the ship are the openings along the edges that drain the water back to sea.
Sink me! is an expression of surprise.
To splice the mainbrace is to have a drink (or lots of them).
Apparently the punishment of walking the plank is fiction, first appearing in 19th Century pirate stories.

Lots of pirate pictures
Lots of pirate book resources/bibliographies

First thing I ever made in Photoshop, back in 1995 (props 2 JRH).

Subject A was half-human, half-human clone, and half-chimpanzee. They made him 1.5 times the quantity of a single normal human. Some people think the clone side of him was really the funniest, but the team always intended him to get his laughs from the regular human side. Otherwise, they argue, they would have just made him straight-up equal parts of clone and chimp. But humor was always their intention. No matter your opinion about what makes him so hilarious, his career owes everything to his extra half. Dr. Johnsonian tells the tale:

"Me and my stupid friends were into watching television [in the 1970's]. We thought there was some funny things they showed on it. I used to find humor in trivial dialogue spoken obnoxiously by smarmy twenty-somethings. I still do, of course, but back then my interest bordered on the fanatical. My stupid friends and I would try to find some way to express our appreciation. Concrete poured over the t.v. quickly led to molten lead, and then finally, molten gold. Maria used to dress up as a baby and we'd all coo at her. I vowed solemnly to never vomit again. But it wasn't enough. The grotesques on television were so funny that we couldn't "laugh" hard enough. I wanted to laugh so hard that I was willing to try anything, and my stupid friends agreed. So we decided to make a funny person. Someone who would be funny and also, at the same time, be outside the television. At my insistence, we made a couple of solemn vows - never to pour concrete over our comedian, never to introduce him to friends or relatives, and never to bathe each other or ourselves ever again. Some friends of mine broke their promises and we made them leave our group. The ones that stayed were rewarded ten-fold. We birthed a funny man who made us more than laugh and we launched him into a successful career (after waiting the necessary 20+ years). Others found him amusing and wrote articles about him. I think his human side shows through when he cracks a joke."

Subject A wasn't as well-received as Dr. Johnsonian implies. Sharpy Pesterson,a member of the doctor's elite team of "stupid friends" explains:

"That threefold freak wasn't as funny to most people as I had originally expected. Audiences would hear his jokes and just think "that's a joke" and dismiss it. We actually had to start social campaigns among the populace to teach that jokes have purposes. So many used to automatically reject a comedian's dialogue as a joke without ever really knowing what the word meant. We got a lot of help and support in this campaign from other comedians who wanted their audiences to be more accepting. That's one of the things I'm really proud of. I got the chance to really look at some of these people up-close and see their faces, many of which were so funny in their obscenity. I laughed a mile a minute, and I was very happy as a result. There's something very fulfilling about selfishness, and how it relates to humor."

In his autobiography, Subject A recalls with fondness his successful career:

"There is so little in this world to lie about. If you tell the truth, you will be under suspicion anyway. Make as little of their noise as you can."

Someone else besides us is thinking about Cryptids.
...say wha?!

I just found out I have an interesting relative, nephew to my great-grandfather Henry Newlin Stokes. His name was Samuel Evans Stokes, and there's a whole lot of web-sites about him. He went over to India as a Christian missionary and started an apple orchard (the first ever to bring apples to India). He married a local, converted to Hinduism, changed his name to Satyanand, and joined Gandhi's freedom fighters. Gandhi, who knew him, said "No Indian is giving such battle to the [British] Government as Mr. Stokes".
I found his biography in the library, and I'm gonna read it. His story is pretty damn near incredible. Will wonders never cease?

Where I first found out about him
Apple Time at Thanedar
What have apples got to do with Stokes?
How the Apple Came to India
Johnny Appleseed in India

Check out my bruthas on da Street, yo. Now I know who to aks.

I don't pretend to be a rich man. But a number of people have approached me with offers to take my money for some purpose. I'm not sure why this is, and frankly, it concerns me very little. Let them, I say. And furthermore, do pretend not to give them even a passing notice. Do.

Thought about your problem. Found this:

What to do if your clone has too big a head:

Scholars of this century conclude that an over-sized brain is detrimental to the whole health of a clone body. Masses are disproportionate to the parts they are conjoined to. Gravity is deemed ally, and the tester finds a thorn hidden on the rose. As gravity is indicative of larger forces at work in the Heavens, it is no surprise to hear that many try to work around it, what Deshke calls "whisking past God". One must understand that an emphasis on the procedure of promoting a cavity towards growth will often result in an expansion of the surrounding tissues. This is Common Law. Adversely, if one were to emphasize deflation, the name would be heralded in empyreal scripts. It is for this reason that science testers defer to higher ranked individuals. It is also for this reason that this author has the hobbies of tennis, pottery, and hiking/walking. But with children on the rise in the states, each of them flirting with gravity, and parents at a loss for how to hurt effectively, the heads of clones continue to turn out grotesquely huge. The trend is understandable and for many, laudable. I've heard of banquet halls filled to near capacity in cities of Georgia where the people raise their glasses and cheer for the big headed clones in their midst. Many, I've also heard rumored, forget their bravado for a moment, and wonder aloud where the wine for their glasses has gotten off to (Georgia takes away the wine during moments of toast). Still, countless thousands of child-parents realize their mistakes and regret their emphasis on cavity promotion,. These wanton artists-all want to rescind their scholarly attempts and reduce the spectacle. It is for this reason that I created the 5 steps one can take to deal with a top-heavy scenario:

1. Aim fires. Syringes of fire can help, but the most effective method involves a more projectile approach. The further distance the tester is away from the head, the better the results. Heads scale to varying degrees depending on distance.
2. General loafing-about. Disuse can aid and abet. Time and time again, cases of heads left in rooms with heavy apathy absorb natural entropic functions..
3. Naming. This is difficult, but those with pro-handling skills should try this first as its effects are less temporary. Under the right name, a clone head diminishes with self-doubt.
4. Elimination through Looking. Not-to-be-confused with 'Looking that brings Dissolve'. This step will do very little in the way of making one feel at ease or "more-at-home". Try a school for that. Instead, use ETL for lascerations necessary for Step 5...
5. Stress privilege. Clones can accept cosmic reminders of their status. Using a positively enforced strand of one such DNA loop that has been properly lascerated (see Step 4), the unit top carriage will re-scale, transferring mass and seeking proportion. Quickly a tap on the shoulder becomes a pat on the back.

My good friend J.R. Harris is the inventor of the Temporary Tattoo Printer Paper for Kids, and also a mouse for your computer that LOOKS LIKE AN ACTUAL MOUSE!
He is the original founder of the Clapping Bastards, a society I seek inclusion with.

Lawless Comix, Issue # 6 got reviewed at Haggard and Halloo and my Adventures of Young Nixon (link forthcoming) comic got some gold stars. Here's the relevant text from it:

9 different comics by 9 different artists. Some are really good, some are, well, it'll depend on your sense of humor. My favorite story was The Adventures of Young Nixon because it doesn't make a whole lot of sense and the plot twists are completely random. This seemingly pointless story goes full circle at the end. ..........Overall I was impressed by the variety in this young feeling comic. It's got energy, potential and even tries to say something about pre-emptive war, campus politics and pop television. I hope they keep making more of these. Visit them @ www.billanderik.com/lawless and submit your own comic. It's a good cause and a good use of freedom of speech. Support it!

-Dino Valentino

LINKY TIME:

I loved these choose-your-own-adventure style books as a kid:
Way of the Tiger
Encyclopaedia of Orb

People got fooled:
The Mumler Mystery
Spirit Photography

Long ago I took a little trip to Chicago with some chums.

Do Nothing More Than Behold :
The Museum of Natural & Artificial Ephemerata

Twenty-Seven Cats and a Dragon
by Leonardo da Vinci

Yay! Bahrakhen Ode Poem is up and running. Hurrah For Bahrakhen!

Poems by the Pirate Yetso :

Mutiny
The Gas Goose Poem

Choose Type carefully. Your identity is in question:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a rotund cowboy --
Nicknamed "Panda" by his mom, his predilection towards spiders prevented him from having any healthy interactions with dogs. Happy with his body image, he denies his arachnophilia, preferring more esoteric terms for his condition such as "wily" and "pipe-driven".

a food service technician --
Despite her jaundiced skin and vertical eyebrows, she is quite lovely in a mainstream sense. A buried trashcan is her home, and in the Summer she likes to take trips to unknown people's houses, an act strictly forbidden by her mother since infancy. Once there at the house, she is quite the prankster, knocking on the strangers' doors, only to stand there expectantly awaiting the inhabitants' response. When they arrive, she is polite and apologizes. Hoots of laughter rarely are evoked, but many like to smirk in amusement at her jests, now quite well-known & appreciated in the dirtier parts of New Hampshire, if you were to imagine a fantastical science fiction alternate-reality version of New Hampshire (with dirtier parts). She likes to eat her soup with two (2) knives.

a famous person --
Her mother a doctor and her father one too, this pawn salesman made billions off of unessential chess pieces. Now seriously in debt, she is none-the-less much happier, as the love of her life, Mr. Lenny Oghhrf (note: NOT real name), employs her in his prison. He ignores her, unfortunately, but a planned attempt on her part to "rescue" all the prisoners will no doubt get his attention.

steve buscemi look-alike --
Harmless to all but the most unfledged insect, this man still stands tall, pretending to be something he's not - namely, fully human. His beastliness is unapparent, for any sign of it would probably make him slightly dynamic or valid, and he is far from resembling either of these things. He has a decent sense of humor which he uses to make friends. But any attempt to influence those friends fails, as he has very little patience, and tends to get annoyed with himself easily. He has a fail-safe method of self-punishment: washing his face regularly, removing what he calls his "bad, bad, bad, bad, bad, evil face-dirt". He is usually well chastened from this, and strangely never gets the hiccups.

thin wisp of a girl --
Pleased with the state of the world and its inhabitants, she started her own newspaper "Good News" at age 16. Its motto: "Smell the flowers! They're everywhere!" Optimistic and upbeat, she categorically denies the existence of the ocean. To her, it is just "land and land and land, forever and ever and ever". She is unliked by her family, but has found acceptance and love from the most unlikeliest of places: her food. She does not love it back, however, and devours it three times a day, viciously sometimes, not without a certain amount of spite. Hung about her room are three posters. The first one is of Groucho Marx, who she thinks is her father. The second is 'george washington in sunglasses' (that's not what the poster's of, just what's written across van gogh's sunflowers in permanent marker), and the third one is van gogh's sunflowers (this time without anything written on top of it).

the crybaby --
Served breakfast grits a few too many times, this iconoclast likes to bathe in the morning sunshine. She is a night watchman by day, but by night, she sleeps! This is what sets her apart from other less intrepid humans. Citing her parents as the leading cause of lung cancer in the U.S. and Canada (hives in New Guinea), she has formed a club for rejected astronaut hopefuls. She wishes that all rejected astronaut hopefuls could be sent out into space, and she encourages any of them out there to join her organization. It's not that she wants them to reach their goal or attain their dream. Rather, she just wants them off the planet. "Human detritus", she calls them.

the Schwine --
Habitually late in arriving, yet strangely somber if accused, this budding poet is a shoe-in for 'most likely to make men cry'. His poems are filthy, yet bleak. Many consider him a misogynist, and they're correct, but only in-so-far as he will never acknowledge a woman's right to vote. Years ago, he was reared by an elderly man, who mistook him for a pig. The resulting effects to his personality are of a positive nature, and he always tips a lot at restaurants. To him (and his adopted sister), aluminum foil is the devil's garb. Somewhere down below, they believe, deep within the fiery bowls of God's prison, the devil dances in his aluminum foil suit, cat-calling sinners with jeers about their weight. According to the Schwine, Satan likes to pick on fat people. This has become the over-arching theme of his entire literary work. Next year he is tackling prose, writing a four-page heartfelt denouncement against Satan's lack of fat-friendly tendencies.

an underpaid grocer --
He is malnourished and weak, but relatively happy. He's got his records and his sheepdog. Working at a large supermarket, he pines after a girl in the seafood section. He prefers vanilla over chocolate. Local children began fetishizing his existence last year, and word has spread. Now, starting this Fall, a world-wide pilgrimage will take place. Faithfuls from all over will make the trek to his hometown and revere him like a totemic idol. Confused at the attention, he none-the-less has seen a way to profit from the experience: he has asked that all pilgrims bring any old records with them (if they've got them), as he may be interested in a purchase. Also, he is thinking of relocating himself to Mecca just to help Muslims kill two birds with one stone. The pilgrimage could revitalize the failing economy of the entire world.

rejected astronaut hopeful --
Seeing a handful of dirt at age 19 while visiting the Grand Canyon changed this young person's life forever. She knew right then that she wanted to dance between the stars. Ballet classes taught her nothing, and it wasn't until a rejected astronaut hopeful named Raul Husbandry married her that she made the slightest bit of progress. He encouraged her to follow his dream. She applied to NASA by mail and has only recently been notified of the rejection. Still nineteen (despite numerous attempts to advance her age), her dream of becoming an astronaut is still alive. Never having actually met any other human beings besides her ballet teacher and husband does not bode well for her chances. And now word has it that the ballet teacher mysteriously fell off numerous cliffs over a period of three and a half days this past Christmas. In addition, her husband recently left her and hooked up with a pilot. He currently resides in the lavatory of a top military stealth plane. His ex-wife plots his death, and is also considering the adoption of an endangered whale named Philmo, who she hopes can survive the deadly heats of the Sahara. Never planning to move away from her New Jersey homestead, she plans to care for the whale from afar.

The other dudes are dumb. One's a bully. There's also a fisherman and a hermit dwarf.

WHOM DO YOU CHOOSE?

email Dr. H.C. Stalks for your analysis

No false modesty please.

Maybe I'm related:
Alice Stokes Paul

I AM NINGRA of the Enlighted Darkness, He-Who-Shoots-Cheese-From-His-Outstretched-Fingers, Scorer of at least 3,418 on the tally card, Magician of the Ninth Persuasion

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

NOTE: Just in case you forgot, Ningra has requested I provide you with this handy list of Persuasions.

=> Smidgens, Ningra's butler & e-mailer

01 -- Contented
02 -- Indefatigable
03 -- Jubilant
04 -- Made of Wood
05 -- Dead
06 -- Miserly
07 -- Slackjawed
08 -- Industrious
09 -- Irascible
10 -- Tricksy
11 -- Not Nearly a Ninja
12 -- Culpable
.........&c..&c....................

Hard to believe, but True! :

Norton I - Emperor of the United States and Protector of Mexico
The Great Fuss and Fume Over the Omnipotent Oom
The Orphanage of Cast-off Mascots
The Gallery of Regrettable Food
My friend Sean Being in a Band

No Truth Here though:
Boilerplate - Mechanical Marvel of the Nineteenth Century
Monkey Town
Derek Monster
A Puppet Show Opera about a Chicken

When I want a dog sent into space, I don't want to send my own dog. I don't want to send a dog that is regular-sized either. I don't even want to send a dog that doesn't have glowing red eyes and flames rising from its back. This is why I clone my space dogs. Through the use of simple DNA manipulations and molecular engineering, it's easy to make my cosmic canines exactly how I want them, without all that mess. Years ago, I wanted a dog sent into space so that it could die. With cloning, I could properly ensure it would not have the necessary biological make-up to survive the vacuum of outer space. Another time more recently, I wanted a dog that could shoot out its own teeth at satellite targets. It was a piece of cake with cloning! And boy was it fun to watch those teeth fly! I know a lot of people say that you should send your own dog and mutate it first with radioactive rays. I just think that's cruel. Sure, there is that element of developed kinship and personal bond when you use your own dog, but who really needs that when you just want them to bark fire or have the head of a human being thousands and thousands of miles above the earth's surface? Also, I'm sorry, but radioactive mutation rays are not fool-proof. You're more likely to get the desired result with cloning than with the ray. My friend told me one time that a ray made his boston terrier walk upright on two legs, spray out nitrogen gas from its four-foot ears, and develop a compulsion to lick electrical outlets, not-to-mention get bloated and irritable. When I heard that I said "great!". But my friend apparently wanted hydrogen gas, not nitrogen. I'm pretty sure that, with cloning, he would have gotten that H. Here's a few things I've done with space dogs and cloning, two things that go great together! I made a dog expand to the size of a small city once it reached outer space. There it still remains, in orbit like a baby moon. Other dogs I've sent up there live on it like fleas. But they have to watch out for the flames! I always got to have the flames. ;) Another dog could speak German. I'm not exactly sure what dialect. It's currently living on the big moon dog, and is having trouble speaking to the other dogs. Cracks me up. I took two dogs and merged them into one. Those ones died because one was cloned to want to eat the other one. Later, I cloned five (5) dogs to be merged together into one giant monster. I call it Egg -- I hope that it somehow finds a way to reproduce because I think that would be neat. Currently its tethered in space to a big dog who is made of solid steel and can't move. Fluff is a poodle with a really long thin body. She's practically a length of rope. I've thought of using her to tie to other dogs but that just sounds cruel. So instead I launched her further and farther than the other dogs and I'm pretty sure she's slowly moving away from everything outward into the void forever and ever and ever. I made one dog whose eyes were replaced with two smaller dogs (glowing red, of course). And the eyes of those same smaller dogs were two even smaller dogs! That's about as far as I could go, but I'd like to at least get down a few more levels. I didn't send that space dog into space because my mom liked it too much. I'm hoping I can make a better one (with smaller and smaller dogs as eyes) so at least one of these can experience the cold dark vastness of eternity. There was one dog that was really big with glowing red eyes, fire-fur, stilt-like legs, insect wings, marsupial pouch (with an uncloned baby kangaroo in there for kicks), tongue-of-mud, pirate fetish, zip-lock stomach, and horns. I called him Canadian Woman's Finest and he won a couple of awards at space dog conventions. On my birthday, I sent him into space and he disappeared forever. I'd like to think he's still out there somewhere, melting or boiling or getting chopped up. Well, I hope this has been an informative entertaining look at what can be accomplished when one clones one's space dogs. Maybe readers will think twice before aiming that ray on their little pooch.

I love this photograph. It pleases me to no end. I'm talking Eternal Pleasure.

Words I like:
cacodemon - evil aerial spirit, the cackle of the cacodemon is a thing to fear
caitiff - a despicable coward
cankerworm - moth larva, a good insult to call caitiffs.
chigrinn - a ghost resembling a large yellow hedge-hog, benevolent (usually).
coblyn - an imp that moves across water like a rock that's been skipped.
cormorant - a greedy person.
cullion - a rascal.
eudaemonism - a system of ethics that evaluates actions in terms of their capacity to produce happiness.
gourmand - a lover of good food.
jackleg - unscrupulous or dishonest, or a person who is like that.
panopticon - a prison so contructed that the inspector can see each of the prisoners at all times, without being seen. also, a room for the exhibition of novelties.
pantophagy - the habit or power of eating all kinds of food.
runnion - a mangy or scabby creature.
sacristan - one who is in charge of a room in a church housing the sacred vessels and vestments.
heirophant - a high priest.
scapegrace - a scoundrel.
Snick and Snee - a combat with knives.

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