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| Because I love dance videos... |
| I've always liked this video, but I didn't think many other people knew about it |
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| "I'm afraid I've caught poetry." "Oh dear that is nasty, I used to suffer with short stories myself." "When was that?" "Oh, once upon a time." |
| SandraLynn Team Florent! - It's an affliction, if it engenders a conviction to force your diction to fake a depiction in prose chiefly nonfiction. |
I've caught poetry a bit. As you can see it's a hopeless case:
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| Had a near death experience yesterday. Someone's life flashed before my eyes. Then a voice said, "Ooh! Sorry! We'll try and get that right for next time." Could have done with all those loose cars and fast women. Not so sure about the bit with the hedgehogs though. |
| "Where is Steve?" Asked Edna. "I think he saw a Hieronymus Bosch, and he went off to see if he could catch it." Replied Idris. Edna nodded thoughtfully. Steve wasn't turning out to be the guide she'd expected. However demons in general seemed afraid of him, so she did feel safe with him on board. "Idris, who do you think is in charge down here?" The little demon gave a start. He'd been tracing interesting shapes in the mud with his trident and making a mental note to try and get hold of a copy of Euclid's 'Elements' should the opportunity arise. "Oh. Umm. Well ultimately it's." He made furtive pointing upwards gestures. "You know. All Powerful, All Knowing, Omnipresent. The buck stops here so to speak." "But on a day-to-day basis?" "Well the Father of Lies always said it was him, but I think he may have been, well, you know, fibbing. Now he's gone of course it's a bit murkier. I think it sort of depends on where you are and who you are asking." "I see. Well then, how does it work?" "Work?" "For instance, who decides where a soul is assigned in hell?" Idris looked troubled. "Assigned? Umm?" "Are the souls placed in hell according to which sins they have committed whilst alive?" Idris' eyeballs swivelled as though he was looking for somewhere else to be. "Err. Maybe?" "But then, what happens if they've committed an assortment of sins? Do they go to the section of hell set aside for the worst sin, but then how do you judge that? Or do they move around in hell, so much time in the adultery section, a few hours in the coveting thy neighbour's Volkswagen bit and every other Sunday in the bit reserved for people who cut into a traffic queue when everyone else has been in the correct lane for the last ten minutes waiting patiently bit?" Idris was staring at her in horrified incomprehension. "Umm." A thought struck Edna. "Oh how silly of me." Idris looked even more confused, and indeed as if he might bolt at any moment and run for the hills or whatever the metaphysical equivalent exists in hell. "James told me that people chose their heaven. I wonder. Could it be that people also choose their own hell?" |
| I don't often suffer from writers block, but when I do I.... |
 Oh, Doc, I know precisely the pains you share. I was walking through my enchanted forest, chasing after Rainey, my muse. She teased with great promise of an afternoon's entertainment, suggestively flashing her tail feathers whenever my pace slowed. I found my old legs tightening as I hastened along the twisted forest path. Then "Pow! thor-ump!" A gargantuan granite stone landed in the path between us. Rainey tried to help me. She took off a few of her skimpy leathers, tied them together, and tossed the end over the stone, an act I found highly motivating… but still insufficient to get me past the block in my story. I know just beyond this rock lays… well, perhaps a moment's excitement. If not for everyone, at least for an old guy needing an explanation for his elevated blood pressure. But no matter my attempt, the brush, tree, and branch will not allow my passage around the monolith, impeding my progress. Only writers can fully appreciate the pent-up frustration one must endure to get a complete story out of one's head and onto paper. But we learn to be patient, or else the paper we create is better suited to wrap mackerel than to fill the covers of a NYC Bestseller. Yes, very frustrating, though sometimes I imagine the block with a face; this provides the focus for my angst. The next thing I know, I am screaming curses at the image. The "Titian" becomes "A Bug-Eyed, Ball Licking Curmudgeon." This brings to mind some other occasions I confronted one of these elemental behemoths. I realize there are several creative means to excise this blockage, some as effective as a bucket of caster oil. So I impart the wisdom of experience, don't try forcing things that don't want to move. Give it time, lay around in the sun, or count the bats while swatting a few skeeters as you watch the moonset. Soon enough, everything passes. |
| "So that's that." Said Cynthia, unconsciously rubbing her hands together having delivered Gafflebet to (Sir) Dicky Minton back in the present, (depending of course on when you consider the present to be.) "And what will you do now?" Asked Time, politely. Cynthia gave a shrug, "I suppose it's back to the Tadwell Retirement Home for Erudite Eccentric Academics and old age." she said sadly. "Is that what you want?" Time raised his eyebrows in astonishment. "No, of course not, but my part in this sorry mess is thankfully over." "Dear lady, I think you are forgetting something." "Oh?" "You have caught me Cynthia, and now all of Time and Space are at your disposal." "I expect next you'll be inviting me to step into a blue Police Box and offer to take me anywhere, which will probably turn out to be modern day Cardiff." (The observant and well memoried amongst you might remember that David Tennant could well be the incarnation of Time, if Benedict Cummerbund is busy - so that line would make a great 'Easter egg' or something.) Time smiled, and he had really nice teeth. "Not at all, you don't need anything so archaic as a time machine. All you need to do is decide when and where you want to be." "That's easy, and not easy." "How so?" "I want to be with Bertie, and Bertie is dead, and it wouldn't make sense to be with him whilst he is alive, because I already am, or rather, was with him, at least through most of his adult life." "Bertie is in Hell." Cynthia gasped in horror. "But why? He was the most decent, loving, generous man I ever met. He was a bit of a nincompoop, but he was MY nincompoop." Time tried a reassuring smile, and found he rather enjoyed it. "Let me explain. When you die, you get the afterlife you expect. Bertie wants to spend eternity with you, and because you aren't with him, he cannot be happy. So he is in hell. But it would be the mere..." Cynthia was gone. Time looked into here, now and forever, and saw her kissing Bertie passionately. He smiled, (this time it was perhaps a smile of satisfaction, and (quite probably), approval.) |
| I've decided to streamline my life, and cut out a whole lot of needless time thinking about stuff. Instead I'm just going to hate everything and everyone. I got the idea from this new book by Doctor (of Klingon Language) Phil Trubshaw called 'Simplification for the Simple Minded.' SO THIS IS ME NOW... (This post is true for a given value of truth in the narrow band between 'Absolute Bull Droppings' and 'Utterly Nonsensical') |
Thanks to s  , I now have a Latin Motto: Quantum materiae materietur marmota monax si marmota monax materiam possit materiari? A mutter for a nutter - so to speak! Link to the source: "20240429 Handy Latin Phrases"  |
I speak this fluently. To bad no one ever understands what I'm saying. I feel for ya.  |
Went and read s 's original blog entry. Now that I know what it means, that's really funny. Google translate mucked it up. Their translation involved marmot monks materializing matter. |
| "Please sir, I want some more." said an unidentified Newsfeed denizen. (We have protected the identity of the said denizen, so that they will not suffer the natural derision and possible retribution their simple request might reasonably incur. (It was in fact Mr. Wallace Tibble of 11 Watley Gardens, Pontefract, Cake.)) "More?" exploded the Phool, channelling his inner Beadle, well fortified with a large helping of ham,(-ming it up you see!) "Yes sir, I want some more. What happened to the lady who was going to hell?" "Iranoutofideasthat'swhat." The Phool rushed out in a near unintelligible single stream of words. "Well where is she now for instance?" "She's on a beach." "In hell?" "Yes. In Hell. Wherever you look there is a perfectly comfortable sun lounger covered with a towel bearing the German flag. (This is a particularly English hell.) Edna looked around somewhat puzzled. "Is that it?" She asked the small demon that had volunteered itself to act as a local guide whilst the late Steve Irwin was beating up an unfortunate demon who'd taken the form of a stingray several centuries before to torture sailors with a fish fetish. (Which a little like a foot fetish only fishier and less likely to be used in any upcoming Tarantino movies.) The small demon, who called himself Idris, and inexplicably spoke with a Welsh accent looked up from the rather lopsided sandcastle it had been fashioning with his pitchfork. "Well you see, this is only a small part of the first layer of hell, it's not really very horrible at all, some places are even," He looked around to see if anyone was listening, but they weren't. "quite nice really." "So hell has layers?" Asked Edna. "Like a Parfait?" "What's that?" Idris sounded puzzled. "A layer cake." "No, more like onions." He replied confidently. |
| I never thought of Hell as layers; I always considered them various levels. This worked with the idea of an elevator dropping lost souls into the various depths depending upon on if said soul was a lightweight lost soul or a hard-case lost soul. Of course this lines up with the layers; first level lightweights, ninth level hard-cases, and of course the tenth level reserved for administrators (and of course politicians). |
| Ogres are like onions, they have layers (and if left in the sun too long they start to smell really bad). I'm a sucker for Shrek humor... |
| Tyger Tyger (For the prompt 'Stripes' for the "Promptly Poetry Challenge (2023-2024)" ) When strolling through the jungle You have to look sharp Don't cha know So when I see my tailor, I tell him "Stripes" That's the way to go Orange and black look so snazzy They set off the green of my eyes And if I'm lying in wait For a 'ahem', dinner date They provide the perfect disguise For sartorial elegance ensured It has to be stripes every time No spots or splotches And I thank you But from them I must politely decline. |
| Just the other day I stepped into the road and waved at a car yelling "Taxi." The driver wound down his window and yelled back, "Pedestrian." Today's story is brought to you by the 'I'm Tired, It's Friday. No one reads these on Friday anyways, besides they can't all be gold Society (Budleigh Salterton Branch)' |
Adherennium Dr of Phoolishness  - No not you. My error. I was generally speaking. But there are foolish people who do. My apologies. It wasn't meant in the way it looks. |
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