Monday, April 19, 2004
Today is Iain's day.
So today i will fabricate the history of my own cousin Robin. Rather than devoting thousands of lines to various details (Examining the trenches in the soles of his gym shoes, Robin realized they would furnish an excellent venue for his experimental ant mazes, which would be the first step toward his goal of having a masterfully trained insect army to take over the world), i will focus my attention on the history of his seventeen websites and why he is compelled to make a new one every four-and-a-half minutes. This is all bogus.
The Robinator was born in obscure fishing village far below the earth's crust. He was raised by a pack of wild civil engineers and given his name in recognition of his unexplainable tendency to robinate everything from horned toads to entire subterranean people groups. He lived an uneventful and relatively profitable life as grocery store fashion model (don't think too hard about that one) until the day he decided to go and get some sun, though he didn't really know what that entailed. Using a series of hand- and foot-holds that he robinated himself out of the live rock, he made his way up to a small rural community in northeast Wisconsin. Once there, he wasted no time in immediately proceeding with the noble venture of squinting a bunch and sniffing about. There was some sort of nasty funk surrounding him, but since he was unaccustomed to the ways of the surface, he assumed that horrible smells were the norm. Three years later, his eyes adjusted to the light and he finally dug himself out of the second largest manure pile in the state.
Whereupon he was greeted by a huge mob of onlookers, waving pennants, flashing bulbs, sticking microphones in his face, and picking Lester Fungi's nose. Well, only one of them was picking Lester Fungi's nose, actually. But before long Lester made him stop. Anyway, Robin was unaware up to that point of the fame he had earned regionally for stoically inhabiting a manure pile for three years. He was a hero, and it was only a short time until his fans began demanding public appearances all over the place. Preferring the dim lighting, peace and quiet of his underground home, the Robinator opted to remain indoors and start a website in lieu of live crapfests in all manner of locale.
But there was a problem. Every time he started up a website and had it running smoothly for a couple of moments, he breathed a deep sigh of relief and, in doing so, caught a whiff of the permeating cow poo stench that had followed him around since his emergence into the outide world. He mistakenly attributed the smell to the quality of his work. "Man, this site stinks," he would say. "I have to start a new one."
Somewhere along the line, somebody either gave him a disinfectant bath or put a clothespin on his nose, because he hasn't changed sites in a while. But we'll see.
So much of the crap that goes on in life is a result of crap.
So today i will fabricate the history of my own cousin Robin. Rather than devoting thousands of lines to various details (Examining the trenches in the soles of his gym shoes, Robin realized they would furnish an excellent venue for his experimental ant mazes, which would be the first step toward his goal of having a masterfully trained insect army to take over the world), i will focus my attention on the history of his seventeen websites and why he is compelled to make a new one every four-and-a-half minutes. This is all bogus.
The Robinator was born in obscure fishing village far below the earth's crust. He was raised by a pack of wild civil engineers and given his name in recognition of his unexplainable tendency to robinate everything from horned toads to entire subterranean people groups. He lived an uneventful and relatively profitable life as grocery store fashion model (don't think too hard about that one) until the day he decided to go and get some sun, though he didn't really know what that entailed. Using a series of hand- and foot-holds that he robinated himself out of the live rock, he made his way up to a small rural community in northeast Wisconsin. Once there, he wasted no time in immediately proceeding with the noble venture of squinting a bunch and sniffing about. There was some sort of nasty funk surrounding him, but since he was unaccustomed to the ways of the surface, he assumed that horrible smells were the norm. Three years later, his eyes adjusted to the light and he finally dug himself out of the second largest manure pile in the state.
Whereupon he was greeted by a huge mob of onlookers, waving pennants, flashing bulbs, sticking microphones in his face, and picking Lester Fungi's nose. Well, only one of them was picking Lester Fungi's nose, actually. But before long Lester made him stop. Anyway, Robin was unaware up to that point of the fame he had earned regionally for stoically inhabiting a manure pile for three years. He was a hero, and it was only a short time until his fans began demanding public appearances all over the place. Preferring the dim lighting, peace and quiet of his underground home, the Robinator opted to remain indoors and start a website in lieu of live crapfests in all manner of locale.
But there was a problem. Every time he started up a website and had it running smoothly for a couple of moments, he breathed a deep sigh of relief and, in doing so, caught a whiff of the permeating cow poo stench that had followed him around since his emergence into the outide world. He mistakenly attributed the smell to the quality of his work. "Man, this site stinks," he would say. "I have to start a new one."
Somewhere along the line, somebody either gave him a disinfectant bath or put a clothespin on his nose, because he hasn't changed sites in a while. But we'll see.
So much of the crap that goes on in life is a result of crap.
