Wednesday, March 31, 2004
Songs are made of mysteries, and clouds are made of moonbeams...
When our exciting narrative left off last time, i had just escaped the dreadful Earl of Poetasters and made my way to the Duke of Stuff's throne room. The Duke (who, as a toddler, i used to mistakenly call the "Duck of Steve") was out, so i began to browse through his collection of stuff in order to enlighten myself, or at least en-lighten his pockets a bit.
In one corner of his throne room was a pile of blue things. Everything in that pile was blue, so i steered clear of the oranges i found there. In another corner the Duke stored all of the back issues of his magazine subscriptions. Turns out the wise and noble Duke of Stuff subscribes to such rags as Jaywalkers Journal, Overripened Bananas Journal, Some Kid's Younger Sister's Journal, This Meeting Is Hereby Adjournal, The Illiterate Times, Monkey Poo Monthly, Sleeptalk of the Stars, and most recently, Lazy Publications' famous Leap Day Magazine. There were some pretty hot perfume samples lying untouched in the 1824 issue of the latter, which i gladly availed myself of. Sucker.
I turned to face a third corner, over which hung a banner that read "Loot and Pillage." Now i knew the Duke of Stuff had an inordinate amount of loot, but i had no idea he was the proprietor of so much pillage. I started to stuff my pockets with it, like a squirrel whose cheeks are actually pants, when the Duke of Stuff suddenly spoke to me in glorious 5.1 Dolby digital surround sound: "Hey! Who died and made you Duke of Stuff? Was it me? Oh no!! Ack!..." *thump*
I spun around, tripped over a pool of Easy Cheese, fell down, got up, and spun around again to see where the voice had come from. Had i accidentally killed the Duke? I was worried sick about him, and i stepped in it and tripped and fell down a second time. After getting up, i was worried sick about him again, only with more chunks this time. It was getting urgent. But suddenly, above the throne in front of me, the Duke appeared to me in a vision and an odor. This is what he said:
"Ah, my loyal Bensaki. I see you are wearing your new squirrel cheek pants."
"Oh gracious Duck of Steve," I implored, reverting to childish pronunciations in my terror, "Let me explain! These pants were new when i bought them yesterday, and they're still slightly alive, so they just keep stuffing themselves with stuff and stuff. Honest!"
"Worry not, my son. I feigned death merely to freak you out. You should have seen the look on your face. I will give you no more punishment than a mandate to continue this very narrative in a third installment tomorrow."
I hung my head. "Yes, your Dukedom."
When our exciting narrative left off last time, i had just escaped the dreadful Earl of Poetasters and made my way to the Duke of Stuff's throne room. The Duke (who, as a toddler, i used to mistakenly call the "Duck of Steve") was out, so i began to browse through his collection of stuff in order to enlighten myself, or at least en-lighten his pockets a bit.
In one corner of his throne room was a pile of blue things. Everything in that pile was blue, so i steered clear of the oranges i found there. In another corner the Duke stored all of the back issues of his magazine subscriptions. Turns out the wise and noble Duke of Stuff subscribes to such rags as Jaywalkers Journal, Overripened Bananas Journal, Some Kid's Younger Sister's Journal, This Meeting Is Hereby Adjournal, The Illiterate Times, Monkey Poo Monthly, Sleeptalk of the Stars, and most recently, Lazy Publications' famous Leap Day Magazine. There were some pretty hot perfume samples lying untouched in the 1824 issue of the latter, which i gladly availed myself of. Sucker.
I turned to face a third corner, over which hung a banner that read "Loot and Pillage." Now i knew the Duke of Stuff had an inordinate amount of loot, but i had no idea he was the proprietor of so much pillage. I started to stuff my pockets with it, like a squirrel whose cheeks are actually pants, when the Duke of Stuff suddenly spoke to me in glorious 5.1 Dolby digital surround sound: "Hey! Who died and made you Duke of Stuff? Was it me? Oh no!! Ack!..." *thump*
I spun around, tripped over a pool of Easy Cheese, fell down, got up, and spun around again to see where the voice had come from. Had i accidentally killed the Duke? I was worried sick about him, and i stepped in it and tripped and fell down a second time. After getting up, i was worried sick about him again, only with more chunks this time. It was getting urgent. But suddenly, above the throne in front of me, the Duke appeared to me in a vision and an odor. This is what he said:
"Ah, my loyal Bensaki. I see you are wearing your new squirrel cheek pants."
"Oh gracious Duck of Steve," I implored, reverting to childish pronunciations in my terror, "Let me explain! These pants were new when i bought them yesterday, and they're still slightly alive, so they just keep stuffing themselves with stuff and stuff. Honest!"
"Worry not, my son. I feigned death merely to freak you out. You should have seen the look on your face. I will give you no more punishment than a mandate to continue this very narrative in a third installment tomorrow."
I hung my head. "Yes, your Dukedom."
Monday, March 29, 2004
They say that 20 years after Roger died, the sidewalks still tasted like chili.
(What? Quoting yourself is cool!)
After the ugly business of the November 16 episode (In Which Bensaki Fails to Identify Some Putrid Vomit-Inducing Goo Before Ravenously Ingesting It), i had determined to hone my stuff-indentification skills in preparation for the day when my friend and feudal lord the Duke of Stuff would no longer be around to protect me. I paid a second visit to the Duke shortly after awakening in a veritable boiling cauldron of puke, bursting bubbles splattering drops of scalding hot regurgitation across my face. (That was some raunchy cheese sauce.) But before i could lay eyes on the benevolent and enlightening Duke, i was accosted by the very scourge of the English language, the dastardly Earl of Poetasters. I knew at once there was no escape.
"Ah, Bensaki, my faithful student. Have you been practicing your similes, making them beautiful like flowers in a delicate rain?"
"Yes, Your Earliness," i grumbled, cursing the day i signed up for poetic instruction with the Northshrimpton School of Light Springtime Imagery. "I have written day and night like an twitching insomniac rodent with opposable thumbs and nothing better to do."
"Very good. You must also practice rhymes both masculine and feminine, for critics wish to discredit your verse and you mustn't give them an in."
I sighed. "That i have done. It wasn't much fun. But it's more entertaining than garbageman training."
"Very good. Now, repeat after me: It would be gnarly if I had a Harley."
"It would be gnarly if i had a Harley."
"I would be snarly if I were Chris Farley."
"I would be snarly if i were Chris Farley."
"Dig that Bob Marley with some bloke named Charlie."
"Dig that Bob Marley with some bloke named Charlie."
"See how much barley we've eaten thus farly."
"See how much.. argh, Your Earliness, how long is this going to take?"
"Wait just a moment while I get my guitarly."
Like the instinctive predator that i am, i fed on his short absence and ate up the distance between myself and the Most Exalted and Surprisngly Cluttered Throne Room of the Duke of Stuff. I found his throne room to contain everything but the kitchen sink and one the Duke of Stuff. I was left with two options: leave the room and seek out the Duke, possibly subjecting myself to the execrable song-and-dance of the guitar-wielding Earl of Poetasters, or await the Duke's return, marvelling in the interval at the myriad stuff contained in his chambers.
I chose the latter.
(What? Quoting yourself is cool!)
After the ugly business of the November 16 episode (In Which Bensaki Fails to Identify Some Putrid Vomit-Inducing Goo Before Ravenously Ingesting It), i had determined to hone my stuff-indentification skills in preparation for the day when my friend and feudal lord the Duke of Stuff would no longer be around to protect me. I paid a second visit to the Duke shortly after awakening in a veritable boiling cauldron of puke, bursting bubbles splattering drops of scalding hot regurgitation across my face. (That was some raunchy cheese sauce.) But before i could lay eyes on the benevolent and enlightening Duke, i was accosted by the very scourge of the English language, the dastardly Earl of Poetasters. I knew at once there was no escape.
"Ah, Bensaki, my faithful student. Have you been practicing your similes, making them beautiful like flowers in a delicate rain?"
"Yes, Your Earliness," i grumbled, cursing the day i signed up for poetic instruction with the Northshrimpton School of Light Springtime Imagery. "I have written day and night like an twitching insomniac rodent with opposable thumbs and nothing better to do."
"Very good. You must also practice rhymes both masculine and feminine, for critics wish to discredit your verse and you mustn't give them an in."
I sighed. "That i have done. It wasn't much fun. But it's more entertaining than garbageman training."
"Very good. Now, repeat after me: It would be gnarly if I had a Harley."
"It would be gnarly if i had a Harley."
"I would be snarly if I were Chris Farley."
"I would be snarly if i were Chris Farley."
"Dig that Bob Marley with some bloke named Charlie."
"Dig that Bob Marley with some bloke named Charlie."
"See how much barley we've eaten thus farly."
"See how much.. argh, Your Earliness, how long is this going to take?"
"Wait just a moment while I get my guitarly."
Like the instinctive predator that i am, i fed on his short absence and ate up the distance between myself and the Most Exalted and Surprisngly Cluttered Throne Room of the Duke of Stuff. I found his throne room to contain everything but the kitchen sink and one the Duke of Stuff. I was left with two options: leave the room and seek out the Duke, possibly subjecting myself to the execrable song-and-dance of the guitar-wielding Earl of Poetasters, or await the Duke's return, marvelling in the interval at the myriad stuff contained in his chambers.
I chose the latter.
Titles about titles
I wish my last name was Darling. That way, i could join the army and all the snarly, hypermasculine officers would have to call me "Private Darling." Imagine all the fun times we'd have. "Drop and give me twenty, Darling!" "Darling, you're a disgrace to the uniform!" "Get your scumbag face out of my sight before I break your skull, Darling!" Hee hee... i'd sabotage the effectiveness of the entire military system.
If my last name was Dumas, on the other hand...
I wish my last name was Darling. That way, i could join the army and all the snarly, hypermasculine officers would have to call me "Private Darling." Imagine all the fun times we'd have. "Drop and give me twenty, Darling!" "Darling, you're a disgrace to the uniform!" "Get your scumbag face out of my sight before I break your skull, Darling!" Hee hee... i'd sabotage the effectiveness of the entire military system.
If my last name was Dumas, on the other hand...
Sunday, March 28, 2004
ting!
Wow. It seems like my blog for the last couple months has consisted of one long string of apologies for not posting enough. Dang. Well, like i predicted, i was away from computers this whole past week, with the exception of checking my email like once. Right, so that's all the further apology/explanation you're going to get from me. And i practically promise you, if you're still any kind of loyalish reader, that you can expect consistent posts/freakups/the occasional audio-bombshell from now to the end of the academic year, at least. We'll worry about summer when it gets here. Speaking of audio, i haven't abandoned that project, but i can't really give you any sort of guarantee on a time frame.
Jeez, am i ever undependable. Flog me if you must. I'm off to get tickled. Freakup later tonight. (if you can believe it...)
Wow. It seems like my blog for the last couple months has consisted of one long string of apologies for not posting enough. Dang. Well, like i predicted, i was away from computers this whole past week, with the exception of checking my email like once. Right, so that's all the further apology/explanation you're going to get from me. And i practically promise you, if you're still any kind of loyalish reader, that you can expect consistent posts/freakups/the occasional audio-bombshell from now to the end of the academic year, at least. We'll worry about summer when it gets here. Speaking of audio, i haven't abandoned that project, but i can't really give you any sort of guarantee on a time frame.
Jeez, am i ever undependable. Flog me if you must. I'm off to get tickled. Freakup later tonight. (if you can believe it...)
Friday, March 19, 2004
Break has Sprung
hello all. this is going to be a short one. i'm on spring break, so you're gonna have to freak up your own dang days for a week or so. :P nyeh. i might stop in once or twice if i get the chance. eitherwise, i'll be back next week. take care!
hello all. this is going to be a short one. i'm on spring break, so you're gonna have to freak up your own dang days for a week or so. :P nyeh. i might stop in once or twice if i get the chance. eitherwise, i'll be back next week. take care!
Thursday, March 18, 2004
Secret and You Shall Findret
Exposé time? Why yes, it is. How did you know? As most of you are probably aware, there is a shady character lurking about my comments and book of guests whose specialty and name are snide comments and Iain Anderson, respectively. How much do you actually know about this Iain character? Well, you're about to know a whole lot more, because - that's right - i've done an exposé. Based on information i've gleaned from the internet concerning the several hundred Iain Andersons out there, i've made up this timeline of our particular Iain's life. The chap was born in 1962, which places him precisely somewhere between the ages of 11 and 78. From there, the timeline takes over, so i'll waste no more time and space getting to it. Here 'tis.
Timeline of the Life of Iain Anderson
-1962: Birth, followed by several years of unintelligible complaining about unspecified issues.
-1965: Publishes first volume of memoirs: Goo Goo Ga: My Repressed Childhood - The Early Years
-1971: Befriends a family of monkeys; makes off with their life savings and all their food.
-1972: Spends the monkeys' life savings on an economy-sized jug of vinegar; pours entire contents onto a hobo's head from a fourth-story window.
-1975: Kicks a defenseless pumpkin.
-1978: Establishes the celebrated Dubious High School Toilet Humor Club.
-1979: Holds up a toll booth; takes his toll.
-1980: Enjoying his newfound rights as an 18-year-old, he votes a lot and gets married three times.
-1982: Travels back in time to wreak havoc on the stone age. Meets his junior high self on the way. They decide to hang out.
-1975: Re-kicks the defenseless pumpkin.
-1980: Annuls his marriages. Buys a lottery ticket. Many jugs of vinegar to follow.
-1982: Bored with the prospect of living those seven years yet again and earning a third high school degree, he decides to travel forward in time to a day when popular music is no longer total crap.
-3046: Gets his groove on in a major way, but misses the company of humans and other non-androids. Returns to the 80's.
-1988: Cuts his hair into a razor-tipped mohawk for slicin' up stuff. Sweet.
-1991: Ponders the meaning of life for a while.
-1996: Emerges from literary obscurity with his second published work, the critically acclaimed What Individualism Can Do for Mankind.
1998: Destroys the entire earth in a powerful fit of sneezing; wakes up.
2000: Yells and screams.
2003: Eats the cherries off of the world's ice cream sundaes.
2004: Gets his kicks by pretending to be a girl my cousin knows named Lindsay and posting snide comments on my blog, landing himself in a king-sized heap of exposé.
So there you have it. The ugly truth. For the rest of you, beware of this pumpkin-kicking no-goodnik. For Iain... i've got my eye on you. ;P
Exposé time? Why yes, it is. How did you know? As most of you are probably aware, there is a shady character lurking about my comments and book of guests whose specialty and name are snide comments and Iain Anderson, respectively. How much do you actually know about this Iain character? Well, you're about to know a whole lot more, because - that's right - i've done an exposé. Based on information i've gleaned from the internet concerning the several hundred Iain Andersons out there, i've made up this timeline of our particular Iain's life. The chap was born in 1962, which places him precisely somewhere between the ages of 11 and 78. From there, the timeline takes over, so i'll waste no more time and space getting to it. Here 'tis.
Timeline of the Life of Iain Anderson
-1962: Birth, followed by several years of unintelligible complaining about unspecified issues.
-1965: Publishes first volume of memoirs: Goo Goo Ga: My Repressed Childhood - The Early Years
-1971: Befriends a family of monkeys; makes off with their life savings and all their food.
-1972: Spends the monkeys' life savings on an economy-sized jug of vinegar; pours entire contents onto a hobo's head from a fourth-story window.
-1975: Kicks a defenseless pumpkin.
-1978: Establishes the celebrated Dubious High School Toilet Humor Club.
-1979: Holds up a toll booth; takes his toll.
-1980: Enjoying his newfound rights as an 18-year-old, he votes a lot and gets married three times.
-1982: Travels back in time to wreak havoc on the stone age. Meets his junior high self on the way. They decide to hang out.
-1975: Re-kicks the defenseless pumpkin.
-1980: Annuls his marriages. Buys a lottery ticket. Many jugs of vinegar to follow.
-1982: Bored with the prospect of living those seven years yet again and earning a third high school degree, he decides to travel forward in time to a day when popular music is no longer total crap.
-3046: Gets his groove on in a major way, but misses the company of humans and other non-androids. Returns to the 80's.
-1988: Cuts his hair into a razor-tipped mohawk for slicin' up stuff. Sweet.
-1991: Ponders the meaning of life for a while.
-1996: Emerges from literary obscurity with his second published work, the critically acclaimed What Individualism Can Do for Mankind.
1998: Destroys the entire earth in a powerful fit of sneezing; wakes up.
2000: Yells and screams.
2003: Eats the cherries off of the world's ice cream sundaes.
2004: Gets his kicks by pretending to be a girl my cousin knows named Lindsay and posting snide comments on my blog, landing himself in a king-sized heap of exposé.
So there you have it. The ugly truth. For the rest of you, beware of this pumpkin-kicking no-goodnik. For Iain... i've got my eye on you. ;P
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
Fork over the spoons.
This is an actual conversation that took place yesterday between Julie and one of her tacos. I overheard it by accident when i was eavesdropping.
Julie: Narg harg harg. *munch munch*
Taco: Sorry, what was that?
J: Oh, I make noises when I eat.
T: I see.
J: Does it bother you?
T: I don't know what to make of it, that's all. It's a little unsettling.
J: Does it make me sound like a Mustard Machine? My last taco told me I sound like a Mustard Machine.
T: Not really, no. All the Mustard Machines I've known have been rather articulate.
J: Oh, well thank you. I... um. Yeah.
T: Anyway, make the noises if you must. It's no business of mine if you sound like a caveman.
J: Narg harg nargaveman?
T: That's right. A caveman. And people are staring, too.
J: Well, what am I supposed to do? Starve myself?
T: Just eat quietly.
J: That's all?
T: Well, it's the first step. Follow the rest of my advice, and I can make this entire restaurant love you. Love you, I say! The next th-
J: *munch, munch* There. No noises that time. How was... Oh. Oh, goodness. I've eaten you.
...
J: Narg harg harg.
This is an actual conversation that took place yesterday between Julie and one of her tacos. I overheard it by accident when i was eavesdropping.
Julie: Narg harg harg. *munch munch*
Taco: Sorry, what was that?
J: Oh, I make noises when I eat.
T: I see.
J: Does it bother you?
T: I don't know what to make of it, that's all. It's a little unsettling.
J: Does it make me sound like a Mustard Machine? My last taco told me I sound like a Mustard Machine.
T: Not really, no. All the Mustard Machines I've known have been rather articulate.
J: Oh, well thank you. I... um. Yeah.
T: Anyway, make the noises if you must. It's no business of mine if you sound like a caveman.
J: Narg harg nargaveman?
T: That's right. A caveman. And people are staring, too.
J: Well, what am I supposed to do? Starve myself?
T: Just eat quietly.
J: That's all?
T: Well, it's the first step. Follow the rest of my advice, and I can make this entire restaurant love you. Love you, I say! The next th-
J: *munch, munch* There. No noises that time. How was... Oh. Oh, goodness. I've eaten you.
...
J: Narg harg harg.
Sunday, March 14, 2004
Saturday, March 13, 2004
Sorry about the inconsistent posting. I've been reading a lot lately. Reading is the best. Forget it. Go read something.
Anyway.
I guess you could read this. If i were to write it. Which i'm not going to.
Should i?
Pssht. Nah.
Laters.
Anyway.
I guess you could read this. If i were to write it. Which i'm not going to.
Should i?
Pssht. Nah.
Laters.
Thursday, March 11, 2004
This one's gonna be good. I swear.
It is time once again for Ask Bensaki®, the classic segment i bring back from time to time when i'm so hard pressed for material that i have to resort to using not only a gimmick, but an old gimmick. Today's fun-filled episode will include anywhere from three to four questions from dedicated, fabricated readers, all of which i will answer to some extent. So before you lose interest (you and i both), here's the first one.
Dear Ask Bensaki®,
'Sincerely' just isn't cutting it anymore. Every time i receive a letter from a close friend, would-be assassin, or co-worker, it invariably closes with an assurance of the author's sincerity. Even letters obviously ironic in intent close with the trite adverb. So I ask you: What desirable alternatives to 'Sincerely' are out there, and how do I go about promulgating them?
Sincerely,
Chadmer
Dear Chadmer,
I had a friend who used to sign his letters 'One-leggedly,' but i never knew how to take that. All the same, it pleases me to be asked such a question, as i sympathize with your linguistic plight. Here are some of my favorite send-offs: 'Semiunmaliciously' works for just about anyone you don't have specific homicidal hatred toward. 'Mouth-breathingly' works for people you are stalking. For more formal letters, 'Rabidly' always leaves a good impression. Use 'With affection' for addressees who are fond of fections, or 'With a faction' for addressees against whom you are planning a coup d'état. But the quintessential greeting, in my opinion, is 'Skull-crushingly.' Start using that one in your own letters, and it's sure to catch on. Although, with a name like Chadmer, you may be better off with 'Pretentiously.'
Sincerely,
Bensaki
Dear Ask Bensaki®,
Pomegranate?
Reggie
Dear Reggie,
Yes, please.
Bensaki
Dear Ask Bensaki,
I like nothing better than to crush skulls. Whenever I see a skull, all I can think about is crushing it. You might say I have a crush on crushing skulls. I can't help it. The idea has got into my skull, and I can't crush it. I want to crush some skulls. My question is, do you mind?
Sincerely,
Crusherly Skullton
Dearest Crusherly,
Shame on you, getting all my hopes up like that. I have no words for you. You're dead to me.
With affection,
Bensaki
Dear Flask of Saki,
I have a problem. Every time I get up the nerve to ask this one guy out, I remember he's a historic figure who has been dead these four hundred years. Has this ever happened to you? And if so, how do I get giraffes to stop sermonizing at me?
Skull-crushingly,
Lindannabethiette
Dear Larissabilly,
I have had troubles in the past with great historic figures hitting on me, but I've never developed a sufficient crush on one myself to be able to sympathize with you. However, if you ever get over Michelangelo or whoever, there's a friend of mine, one Crusherly Skullton, whom i could easily set you up with. Don't let the name fool you - he's really quite a macho guy. He could probably get the giraffes to leave you alone too.
One-leggedly,
Bensaki
That concludes today's episode. Let me know what you make of it. I'm still trying to figure out what's going on there myself.
It is time once again for Ask Bensaki®, the classic segment i bring back from time to time when i'm so hard pressed for material that i have to resort to using not only a gimmick, but an old gimmick. Today's fun-filled episode will include anywhere from three to four questions from dedicated, fabricated readers, all of which i will answer to some extent. So before you lose interest (you and i both), here's the first one.
Dear Ask Bensaki®,
'Sincerely' just isn't cutting it anymore. Every time i receive a letter from a close friend, would-be assassin, or co-worker, it invariably closes with an assurance of the author's sincerity. Even letters obviously ironic in intent close with the trite adverb. So I ask you: What desirable alternatives to 'Sincerely' are out there, and how do I go about promulgating them?
Sincerely,
Chadmer
Dear Chadmer,
I had a friend who used to sign his letters 'One-leggedly,' but i never knew how to take that. All the same, it pleases me to be asked such a question, as i sympathize with your linguistic plight. Here are some of my favorite send-offs: 'Semiunmaliciously' works for just about anyone you don't have specific homicidal hatred toward. 'Mouth-breathingly' works for people you are stalking. For more formal letters, 'Rabidly' always leaves a good impression. Use 'With affection' for addressees who are fond of fections, or 'With a faction' for addressees against whom you are planning a coup d'état. But the quintessential greeting, in my opinion, is 'Skull-crushingly.' Start using that one in your own letters, and it's sure to catch on. Although, with a name like Chadmer, you may be better off with 'Pretentiously.'
Sincerely,
Bensaki
Dear Ask Bensaki®,
Pomegranate?
Reggie
Dear Reggie,
Yes, please.
Bensaki
Dear Ask Bensaki,
I like nothing better than to crush skulls. Whenever I see a skull, all I can think about is crushing it. You might say I have a crush on crushing skulls. I can't help it. The idea has got into my skull, and I can't crush it. I want to crush some skulls. My question is, do you mind?
Sincerely,
Crusherly Skullton
Dearest Crusherly,
Shame on you, getting all my hopes up like that. I have no words for you. You're dead to me.
With affection,
Bensaki
Dear Flask of Saki,
I have a problem. Every time I get up the nerve to ask this one guy out, I remember he's a historic figure who has been dead these four hundred years. Has this ever happened to you? And if so, how do I get giraffes to stop sermonizing at me?
Skull-crushingly,
Lindannabethiette
Dear Larissabilly,
I have had troubles in the past with great historic figures hitting on me, but I've never developed a sufficient crush on one myself to be able to sympathize with you. However, if you ever get over Michelangelo or whoever, there's a friend of mine, one Crusherly Skullton, whom i could easily set you up with. Don't let the name fool you - he's really quite a macho guy. He could probably get the giraffes to leave you alone too.
One-leggedly,
Bensaki
That concludes today's episode. Let me know what you make of it. I'm still trying to figure out what's going on there myself.
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
Gershwin Potato Chips?
Sorry about not freaking up your day quite as much as usual today. I was busy declaring war on my friend the Axis of Pat on behalf of the Commonwealth of Independent Ben. I'd post the formal declaration here, but it's full of inside jokes, so it wouldn't really do anything but frustrate you.
But if you need a bit of freak in your life (which i know everyone does), go sign my book of guests, which has new and improved options, including the much sought-after villainy. Awesomefest.
Sorry about not freaking up your day quite as much as usual today. I was busy declaring war on my friend the Axis of Pat on behalf of the Commonwealth of Independent Ben. I'd post the formal declaration here, but it's full of inside jokes, so it wouldn't really do anything but frustrate you.
But if you need a bit of freak in your life (which i know everyone does), go sign my book of guests, which has new and improved options, including the much sought-after villainy. Awesomefest.
Tuesday, March 09, 2004
Forsoothpaste
It was a good move on Wonka's part not calling them Everlasting Reasonforlivingstoppers.
It was a good move on Wonka's part not calling them Everlasting Reasonforlivingstoppers.
Monday, March 08, 2004
Joint Posting Action! (finally)
(the other 2/3 of this crazy chickenfest are on carlene's blog... which you already know by now.)
And now, a selection from the inspirational collection Chicken Soups for the Cannibalistic Chicken's Soul: a short story entitled "Hatching a New Existence" by Milton Cooper. The story is based on the author's own experience.
--
"Hatching a New Existence"
We sat in a circle on hard wooden chairs. The atmosphere in the small room was one of nervous expectation coupled with scarcely hidden hunger. I looked around. Several of these faces were familiar; many belonged to other people, from other farms. All eyes were trained on a round metal platter on a short stool in the center of the circle. An aroma flowed in powerful waves toward my eager nostrils, and the gourmet in me salivated. I had to stifle a moan. "Corpses," I told myself. "That's what they are. My poor, slaughtered brothers and sisters." Though they had been my mantra for the last four months, the words did me no good. Like always, I was the first one to fold. As I tasted the juices of my sweet depravity, I was consumately satisfied.
I walked home in utter solitude, sifting through words in an attempt to describe the weight on my soul. Pain, despair, utter frustration all fell short of the ghastly horror that inhabited my very being. I began to peck at my own leg, for want of any other outlet for my agony. I disgusted myself.
"Who ARE you??" I screamed. "What kind of sick chicken can't kick chicken? Why, I'm... I'm... I'm a Chicken McMonster!! A tasty, fresh, grilled Chicken McMonster... mmm.."
WHACK! Something hit me on the top of the head. It stung sharply, and I fell to the ground, wings flapping in a futile reflex. I looked down and saw a packet of barbecue sauce. Before I had a chance to curse the wicked irony, a heavy bag landed with a thud inches from my head, jarring me so that I couldn't read the label for a moment. When the world stopped shaking, I made out the word "Soy," along with half the word "Nuggets." When I went to sleep that night, my mind was swarming with thought. Could I learn to love this vegetarian staple? Might the solution to my heinous problem be no further away than that scarcely populated aisle at the grocery store, frequented by hippies and tofools? Does broth count?
I awoke with a sense of peace that can only described as peaceful. Since that day I have never touched a chicken, as I will gladly place my hand over my heart and swear to.
Frog legs, however, are deliciously underrated.
(the other 2/3 of this crazy chickenfest are on carlene's blog... which you already know by now.)
And now, a selection from the inspirational collection Chicken Soups for the Cannibalistic Chicken's Soul: a short story entitled "Hatching a New Existence" by Milton Cooper. The story is based on the author's own experience.
--
"Hatching a New Existence"
We sat in a circle on hard wooden chairs. The atmosphere in the small room was one of nervous expectation coupled with scarcely hidden hunger. I looked around. Several of these faces were familiar; many belonged to other people, from other farms. All eyes were trained on a round metal platter on a short stool in the center of the circle. An aroma flowed in powerful waves toward my eager nostrils, and the gourmet in me salivated. I had to stifle a moan. "Corpses," I told myself. "That's what they are. My poor, slaughtered brothers and sisters." Though they had been my mantra for the last four months, the words did me no good. Like always, I was the first one to fold. As I tasted the juices of my sweet depravity, I was consumately satisfied.
I walked home in utter solitude, sifting through words in an attempt to describe the weight on my soul. Pain, despair, utter frustration all fell short of the ghastly horror that inhabited my very being. I began to peck at my own leg, for want of any other outlet for my agony. I disgusted myself.
"Who ARE you??" I screamed. "What kind of sick chicken can't kick chicken? Why, I'm... I'm... I'm a Chicken McMonster!! A tasty, fresh, grilled Chicken McMonster... mmm.."
WHACK! Something hit me on the top of the head. It stung sharply, and I fell to the ground, wings flapping in a futile reflex. I looked down and saw a packet of barbecue sauce. Before I had a chance to curse the wicked irony, a heavy bag landed with a thud inches from my head, jarring me so that I couldn't read the label for a moment. When the world stopped shaking, I made out the word "Soy," along with half the word "Nuggets." When I went to sleep that night, my mind was swarming with thought. Could I learn to love this vegetarian staple? Might the solution to my heinous problem be no further away than that scarcely populated aisle at the grocery store, frequented by hippies and tofools? Does broth count?
I awoke with a sense of peace that can only described as peaceful. Since that day I have never touched a chicken, as I will gladly place my hand over my heart and swear to.
Frog legs, however, are deliciously underrated.
Saturday, March 06, 2004
f
;-P
That was me shooting myself, like i said. Except the 'f' would be censored if this were MTV. (see isral's blog)
;-P
That was me shooting myself, like i said. Except the 'f' would be censored if this were MTV. (see isral's blog)
Friday, March 05, 2004
Politics, schmolitics. It's too confusing.
I'm such a hypocrite. I told carlene to do the joint-effort post today before midnight, and now i won't be able to do it myself. But watch for the story tomorrow, or maybe very late tonight. Anyway, i decided on my own to get the audioblog account, because i thought of a really funny song today that i couldn't stand not posting. So as soon as i figure out how to pay for stuff online like that (which might take me a couple weeks) you'll be hearing from me, literally. Wow, i think i'm gonna go shoot myself over that last sentence.
I'm such a hypocrite. I told carlene to do the joint-effort post today before midnight, and now i won't be able to do it myself. But watch for the story tomorrow, or maybe very late tonight. Anyway, i decided on my own to get the audioblog account, because i thought of a really funny song today that i couldn't stand not posting. So as soon as i figure out how to pay for stuff online like that (which might take me a couple weeks) you'll be hearing from me, literally. Wow, i think i'm gonna go shoot myself over that last sentence.
Thursday, March 04, 2004
Tell the moon-dog, tell the march-hare. We have heaven.
So that's two solid yes votes, two solid no votes, an unqualified no vote (i already have a Scrabble board) and matt's vote, which surprisingly isn't any help at all. I hate to frighten a man who can write such brilliance as the story of Yoga Mayfair, not to mention defy the woman who gave me birth, but on the other hand, my beloved fellow bloggers have a strong voice too. So for now the decision is postponed, lest I choose the wrong side of a vote so close its equal hasn't been seen in four years. Ha. I'm making too big a deal out of it anyway. I'll decide myself... later.
Right, on to the freakup. What should i do? Let's see. I could... make fun of some stuff. That would be cool. Like "Hey stack of cds that i sometimes but not regularly listen to. Yeah that's right, i'm talking to you. Think you're so cool, sitting there with your compact size, comparatively high sound quality and near-universally compatible format? I could take you down with a box of Q-tips dipped in maple sap." And then i'd do it.
Or i could tell a hilarious joke which started out with two priests, a rabbi and a nun walking into a sandcastle, only the nun wouldn't even have to be in the joke, because it would be that hilarious. She could go hang gliding far above the scene, and watch as the entire beach broke out in religious-themed antics, culminating with some reference to a sand-witch, because NOBODY can stop themselves from laughing at the thought of a green-skinned woman on a broomstick flying out of the side of a dune, spraying sand and magical spells all over the unsuspecting sunbathers. And then when she accidentally flew into the nun, just imagine what sort of moral outrage would ensue. The nun would be all "Oh!" and the witch would be all "aah ha ha ha!" and the nun would be all "Oh!" and the witch would be all "aah ha ha ha!" and the nun would be all "Don't you realize I'm a nun?!?" and the witch would be all "aah ha ha ha!" because i can't think of anything else that a witch would say. Then the witch's pointy hat would puncture the sail on the hang glider and the nun would start falling toward the ocean, only to be saved at the last second by a friendly Catholic sea monster who would then be accidentally granted crusader's indulgence by Pope Urban II for eating what he thought was a boatload of Ottoman Turks but was actually a boatload of Turkish davenports. So the nun would survive, and the priests and rabbi would be buried up to their necks in the sand by some rambunctious toddlers, and the witch would go back home to her sand dune and read the sand paper in her sandals while Colonel Sanders did a handstand.
Or i could make up a dumb story about chapstick. Yeah, i think i'll do that.
So that's two solid yes votes, two solid no votes, an unqualified no vote (i already have a Scrabble board) and matt's vote, which surprisingly isn't any help at all. I hate to frighten a man who can write such brilliance as the story of Yoga Mayfair, not to mention defy the woman who gave me birth, but on the other hand, my beloved fellow bloggers have a strong voice too. So for now the decision is postponed, lest I choose the wrong side of a vote so close its equal hasn't been seen in four years. Ha. I'm making too big a deal out of it anyway. I'll decide myself... later.
Right, on to the freakup. What should i do? Let's see. I could... make fun of some stuff. That would be cool. Like "Hey stack of cds that i sometimes but not regularly listen to. Yeah that's right, i'm talking to you. Think you're so cool, sitting there with your compact size, comparatively high sound quality and near-universally compatible format? I could take you down with a box of Q-tips dipped in maple sap." And then i'd do it.
Or i could tell a hilarious joke which started out with two priests, a rabbi and a nun walking into a sandcastle, only the nun wouldn't even have to be in the joke, because it would be that hilarious. She could go hang gliding far above the scene, and watch as the entire beach broke out in religious-themed antics, culminating with some reference to a sand-witch, because NOBODY can stop themselves from laughing at the thought of a green-skinned woman on a broomstick flying out of the side of a dune, spraying sand and magical spells all over the unsuspecting sunbathers. And then when she accidentally flew into the nun, just imagine what sort of moral outrage would ensue. The nun would be all "Oh!" and the witch would be all "aah ha ha ha!" and the nun would be all "Oh!" and the witch would be all "aah ha ha ha!" and the nun would be all "Don't you realize I'm a nun?!?" and the witch would be all "aah ha ha ha!" because i can't think of anything else that a witch would say. Then the witch's pointy hat would puncture the sail on the hang glider and the nun would start falling toward the ocean, only to be saved at the last second by a friendly Catholic sea monster who would then be accidentally granted crusader's indulgence by Pope Urban II for eating what he thought was a boatload of Ottoman Turks but was actually a boatload of Turkish davenports. So the nun would survive, and the priests and rabbi would be buried up to their necks in the sand by some rambunctious toddlers, and the witch would go back home to her sand dune and read the sand paper in her sandals while Colonel Sanders did a handstand.
Or i could make up a dumb story about chapstick. Yeah, i think i'll do that.
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
Grilled Rachel Sandwiches and Beer Cheese Soup
Okay, it's poll time. For three dollars a month, i could get a permanent audio-blogger account and bust more crazy jams like the toast craving blues, or i could stick with what i'm best at (in my opinion, anyway) and save myself a bit of toast money. Either way the written freakups would continue. Would it be worth doing? Let me know what you think.
Freakup proper to follow.
Okay, it's poll time. For three dollars a month, i could get a permanent audio-blogger account and bust more crazy jams like the toast craving blues, or i could stick with what i'm best at (in my opinion, anyway) and save myself a bit of toast money. Either way the written freakups would continue. Would it be worth doing? Let me know what you think.
Freakup proper to follow.
Tuesday, March 02, 2004
Up the freak without a paddle
(i swear, one day i'm going to run out of these 'freak' puns, and then i'll be...*insert today's title*)
Wow. Eleven comments. Pretty impressive. Granted, two of them are from me, one is a repeat ("i'm dave, and i always say the same thing say the same thing twice."), and one is a single-worder from the likes of matt, but it still makes me look and feel beautiful, like my porcupine-scented lotion from Swamp and Body Works. You will all be receiving your 9 dollars shortly, as promised.
In honor of bacon, which I recently found out is not in a commited relationship at the moment, i have composed this love poem, which may or may not be the first ever poem written in bullet format. It's going to be sweet. Rather, it is sweet, because i already wrote it and am not making it up just now to try and fulfill unreasonable promises i made while under a state of delusion a sentence or two ago. Here it is.
Oh Bacon, How I Love You, With A Love That Capitalizes Even The Smallest Of Words
a poem/grocery list by bensaki
To purchase:
-Lettuce, discreetly
-Tomato, with caution
-A loaf, well inspected
-Of mayo a jar
-Bacon, tenderly
-Vegetable chowder
-Beverages, coldly
-Bacon, with love
There. If that doesn't win me a Pulitzer, or at least something that can do an adequate Pulitzing job, then i quit.
(i swear, one day i'm going to run out of these 'freak' puns, and then i'll be...*insert today's title*)
Wow. Eleven comments. Pretty impressive. Granted, two of them are from me, one is a repeat ("i'm dave, and i always say the same thing say the same thing twice."), and one is a single-worder from the likes of matt, but it still makes me look and feel beautiful, like my porcupine-scented lotion from Swamp and Body Works. You will all be receiving your 9 dollars shortly, as promised.
In honor of bacon, which I recently found out is not in a commited relationship at the moment, i have composed this love poem, which may or may not be the first ever poem written in bullet format. It's going to be sweet. Rather, it is sweet, because i already wrote it and am not making it up just now to try and fulfill unreasonable promises i made while under a state of delusion a sentence or two ago. Here it is.
Oh Bacon, How I Love You, With A Love That Capitalizes Even The Smallest Of Words
a poem/grocery list by bensaki
To purchase:
-Lettuce, discreetly
-Tomato, with caution
-A loaf, well inspected
-Of mayo a jar
-Bacon, tenderly
-Vegetable chowder
-Beverages, coldly
-Bacon, with love
There. If that doesn't win me a Pulitzer, or at least something that can do an adequate Pulitzing job, then i quit.
Monday, March 01, 2004
The Freak Mystique
Frique?
I don't really approve of this change. Adding comments now makes it look like no one read my blog for the first five months or however long it's been. Plus, they put stupid links in each of the pop-ups that contain the comments, links to who-knows-where that i might not even approve of. So don't click on any of the links. Or click on them, but know that i might not approve. Approving.. bah! who has time to do that?
If you've felt left out to dry this weekend, perhaps you're a bedsheet, or an "unmentionable," or perhaps i've not been posting regularly because of the RAGING ACADEMIC ASSESSMENT STORM!!! Yes, i'm currently caught in Hurricane Calculus French Religion Philosophy French Again. The meteorologists went all out naming this one. There is currently a calm, however, which is known as the eye of the needle of the haystack of the storm. It's a metaphor, for those of you unfamiliar with weather. There's also a pretty good chance that... hey, wait... I'm talking about my actual life here! None of that. Bah.
Okay, time to tell one of my trademark stories. A fictional story. A story about a boy who was caught in a hurric...unami. Hurricunami Calculigionosophrench, it was called. For short. The boy (we'll call him Glensaki) was surrounded by a spiraling swarm of flying papers and open-ended essay questions. In a period of three short days, he was smacked on the face by a test in Calcul...ation, a paper for Phil...Anderson, a test in Preligion, and an essay/test combo punch in Fren...dship. Needless to say, Glensaki hardly had time to update his blog, entitled "Geek Up Your Soufflé," while this hurricunami raged. I, personally, can hardly blame him, and I don't think you should either. *AHEM* I mean, if he were a real person.
Frique?
I don't really approve of this change. Adding comments now makes it look like no one read my blog for the first five months or however long it's been. Plus, they put stupid links in each of the pop-ups that contain the comments, links to who-knows-where that i might not even approve of. So don't click on any of the links. Or click on them, but know that i might not approve. Approving.. bah! who has time to do that?
If you've felt left out to dry this weekend, perhaps you're a bedsheet, or an "unmentionable," or perhaps i've not been posting regularly because of the RAGING ACADEMIC ASSESSMENT STORM!!! Yes, i'm currently caught in Hurricane Calculus French Religion Philosophy French Again. The meteorologists went all out naming this one. There is currently a calm, however, which is known as the eye of the needle of the haystack of the storm. It's a metaphor, for those of you unfamiliar with weather. There's also a pretty good chance that... hey, wait... I'm talking about my actual life here! None of that. Bah.
Okay, time to tell one of my trademark stories. A fictional story. A story about a boy who was caught in a hurric...unami. Hurricunami Calculigionosophrench, it was called. For short. The boy (we'll call him Glensaki) was surrounded by a spiraling swarm of flying papers and open-ended essay questions. In a period of three short days, he was smacked on the face by a test in Calcul...ation, a paper for Phil...Anderson, a test in Preligion, and an essay/test combo punch in Fren...dship. Needless to say, Glensaki hardly had time to update his blog, entitled "Geek Up Your Soufflé," while this hurricunami raged. I, personally, can hardly blame him, and I don't think you should either. *AHEM* I mean, if he were a real person.
