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.
