GUARINUS

THE SIEGE OF LA REINE.

2011-08-28T19:23:00.001-07:00

AN ALLEGORICAL PLAY

IN A SINGLE ACT.

by C.Guarinus.

—

It was a dank and musky day and the troops of General Le began approaching the town of Vilve, where sat the illustrious Reine La and her noble courtiers.

General. Bertaux, I command you to speak with the lady of this town and to inform her that we, the noble men of France, mean neither her nor her subjects any harm.

Bertaux. Why, of course, my Lord—of course. But, first, I must beg that you permit me to pose but one question—

General. No.

Bertaux. Very well, sir. I am your loyal subject.

Bertaux marches beyond the front-line of his troops and advances toward the walls of Vilve (which are collectively known as "le mur du japon"). When he arrives, he is accosted by a saucy herald, with whom he speaks for several minutes.

Bertaux. Good sir! Would you be so kind as to inform your lady that we, the subjects of General Le, mean neither her, nor her city, any harm, and that we only wish to parlay with her this day?

Herald. And what is it that you wish to say?

Bertaux. Well, there is nothing that I personally wish to say. It is rather my general who wishes to speak, and it is on his behalf that I am now addressing you.

Herald. Then, there is nothing that you have to say?

Bertaux. Other than to request that you permit my general speak with your lady, no—there is nothing that I have to say.

Herald. Well, what if this "general" of yours is a villain, who wishes only to murder my lady, seige the town and loot us of all our goods?

Bertaux. On my honour, sir, you needn't be so—

Herald. Sir, in this town, we know nothing of honour. We are a people of commerce who exult in the sight gold, and care not for anything but that and that alone (—well, and perhaps a bit of carnal pleasure; but that, of course, does go without saying). —Therefore, we have no intention of submitting to your demands (especially not on the grounds of "honour and chivalry," with which our people can surely do without). Our first priority, dear friend, is to protect our city; and, in order to ensure her protection, we must permit no strangers to pass beyond her gates.

Bertaux. Listen, good man. If you do not admit either me or my noble Lord to pass into your town, we shall have no choice but to attack.

Herald. Hah! Ha, ha! —If you, good sir, even do so much as dream of attacking, then I shall have no choice but to invoke the Behemoth; who shall crush you and your contemptible army with the snapping of a thumb.

Bertaux. Ha, ha, ha, ha! I reciprocate your laughter, dear friend, with a laughter thrice as strong!

Bertaux retreats and then address his lord, the General.

Bertaux. Sir, I regret to say that he refuses to admit you, me, or any of our noble genitarmes into the town. And he also claims that, if we are to threaten him any further, then he will invoke some sort of Behemoth—capable of crushing our entire army with a sneeze.

General. With a sneeze? What type of man is this Behemoth?

Bertaux. I fear, my Lord, that the Behemoth is not a man at all. I believe he is rather some sort of beast.

General. Hah! No need for that. —I shall march forth and speak unto the wretch.

General Le advances confidently beyond the front-line of the troops and stands before "le mur du japon" in order to address the herald, standing aloft.

General. Grant me a parlay with your lady, wretched peasant, or I shall drab you with the butt o' my rifle.

Herald. Ho! Is this how the men of your country behave? Hm? Is this the chivalry, the civility, and honour on which the whole lot of you do pride your-wretched-selves? —Invoking violence when you are denied a request?

General. Hah! Violence! There is no violence here, you stupid wretch. Rather, 'tis you who have threatened to invoke some great Behemoth, who shall supposedly "smite our entire army with the air of a torrential sneeze."

Herald. A torrential sneeze? Ha, ha! First, dear sir, I did not use such a poorly-crafted phrase as "torrential sneeze"; and, secondly, I said that it will be with the snapping of a thumb—not a sneeze.

General. Sir, the manner of his smiting is immaterial. It is rather a question of whether he will, or will not, smite us. —I care not if he uses a thumb, a sneeze, a spittle or a piece of bark.

Herald. Alas, dear friend, I fear there is nothing more to say. —And, therefore, I bid you have a wonderful day. —Oh, and I demand that both you, and your logger-headed troops, retreat back to the land whence you came (which is, presumably, a mire of shit).

General. Sir! —Or shall I rather say, dog!— Speak insolently to me, my courageous genitarmes, or even to my lovely eunuch, Bertaux; but never, sir—never (if you have any sense)—speak ill of my glorious country! —But, as your sauciness has now grown intolerable, I must therefore raze this wretched city to the ground! —Good day!

Herald. Ha, ha! Wait, good sir! Wait! 'Twas merely in jest! Please, please! Wait! There's no need to raze this poor old city to the ground! —We have nothing behind these walls, I assure you. —You shall not even make up in loot for what you will have lost in both bullets and men. So, listen to what I shall do: if you agree to have your troops retreat but ten kilometres, I will agree to beck my lady to the ramparts of this wall, so that you might have occasion to exchange some words with her. Would you agree to that, my noble friend?

General. No. As a man of property, I must be admitted, without hindrance, into your town; so that I may have a fine and proper audience with your lady. —But, as I have long since lost my patience with you, I shall therefore say, "Godspeed and good riddance."

Herald. You're leaving then?

General. For a moment, sir! —Only for a moment! Soon enough, I shall return unto these walls with a hundred-thousand men and raze this wretched city to the ground! —And your head, dear sir, I shall impale upon a pike, so that I may raise the blood-soaked emblem 'bove the helmets of my men and permit them to laugh at you sufficiently.

Herald. Well! Such of a fine display of courage and wit—of valour and strength—evinces that you, good are, are indeed no match for me. So, listen to what I shall do: I shall admit you into this here town, but you must first agree to strip yourself of all your arms... as well as your breeches.

General. I refuse! —The arms, perhaps; but, not the breeches!

Herald. All right. You can keep the arms, but you must remove the breeches.

General. No!

Herald. All right. How about you remove the arms now and, when you reach the moat, you can then remove the breeches.

General. I flatly refuse to remove the breeches!

Herald. All right, then. Come over to the gate, so that I might admit you into this town with... "civility."

General Le steps confidently before the gate and anxiously awaits the herald.

Porter. Breeches, sir.

General. I am not removing my breeches! —Where's the herald?

Porter. Arms then.

General. [Hands over his arms.] There, I have handed you my arms. Now permit me to enter into your town, so that I might speak unto your lady, dear sir!

Porter. Breeches.

General. I shall knock you to the Hell whence you came, if you don't—

Porter. All right, so be it, then—so be it. You can enter into this here town—but, only you. Not that queer-looking fellow behind you.

General. Which queer fellow?

Porter. The periwigged fellow behind you.

General Le peers over his shoulder in hopes of discovering the man whom the porter had just mentioned. But, when he does, he is knocked over the head, blind-folded and his breeches are torn clean from his legs. He is then borne through the town in a cage and, from thence, carried to the castle of the illustrious Reine La, who has been patiently awaiting to receive him for an audience.

Reine La. Well, then? What type of man are you, sir—speak!

General. What type of man? A type that has been foully mistreated. —Now I demand that you remove this blindfold from mine eyes and return to me my breeches forthwith!

Reine La. Demand, do we? So be it. Lord Hallum, give this man is breeches. And, sentries, please remove the blindfold.

Lord Hallum. Oh, must I?

Reine La. Yes. Hand it over.

Lord Hallum. [Sighs.] Very well. [Sniffs the breeches for a moment and then returns them to the blindfolded general.]

Reine La. Now, good sir, what is it that you have come here to tell me? Is it that you wish to siege my town, rape my people and loot us of all our goods? —Your genitarmes, I must confess, are quite a fearsome group. What with their tall, iron-plated hats and steel braguettes, they... —That is what you people call their armour, is it not? Braguettes?

General. Yes, madam. That we do. —But, let us not diverge from the topic. I believe that you'd better explain why it is that I have been thus treated by your people.

Reine La. Mistreated? Or, thus treated? There is no mistreatment here, general—only custom.

General. Custom? Hah! If it is custom for your people to strip a man of his breeches, then I would as lief have razed this wretched city to the ground as—

Reine La. Sir, there's no need for this! —My love for you is boundless! And I am able to tell by your countenance and dignified mien that you are indeed a man of great courage and strength.

General. Well, it has been said that I—

Reine La. Lady Hallum! Come hither and admire this man's face! Is it not unlike anything that you'd ever seen before?

Lady Hallum. Indeed, madam. —Except for that hideous carbuncle above his brow, which, I believe—

General. Hah! That's no carbuncle, wench! That is what the people of my country call an "elevated brow" (something which, I suspect, you people seldom see.) Ha, ha!

Reine La. Oh, it is true, my friends! It is true! —Never have we come across a man of so much wit—of so much strength, of so much courage, pride and valour! Indeed, good sir, there is no need to capture my town when you have already succeeded in the capturing of my heart!

General. Your Highness... It was not my intention to siege your town at all. In truth, I wanted only to speak— But, as for your heart—Why, that's something that I couldn't—

Reine La. Speak no more! Speak no more! —Lady Hallum, please remove this gentleman's clothes and give him something more that is rather more "appropriate" for the occasion. And, after you have done so, dear maid, please lead this fellow right into my bed-chamber, where I shall be waiting for him in nothing but my—

General. Madam! Please, I don't quite know if I can— I came here only to parlay with you about matters of state, and not about matters of, well—

Reine La. General, you are a wealthy man, are you not?

General. Well, it has been said that I am a man of some considerable means, but, I wouldn't—

Reine La. Modest as well! —O, friends! Please halt all activity at once and admire the inimitable qualities of this man (or, shall I rather say, god?).

Lord Hallum. Divine!

Lady Hallum. Nonpareil!

Lady Noughter. Magnificent!

Lord Noughter. Good!

Herald. Hah! —Ha, ha, ha!

Reine La. Herald, hold your tongue! —Everyone, please! Please! Retire to your beds! For it now time for us to engage in our daily pastime of love-making. —The general and I shall be coupled for the occasion.

General. Madam! I am truly not— [The queen unbuttons her blouse.] —But, perhaps my men can... wait.

Reine La. Speak no more, my love! Speak no more! —Henceforward, devote thyself only to action and, through thine action, express to me thy love!

The illustrious Reine La alights from her throne and, accompanied by two young maids, walks slowly into her bed-chamber. The general, who has been slightly overcome by the situation (but is visibly tempted thereby) is stripped of his clothes by a swarthy old maid.

General. Madam, please listen. I truly don't know whether I should be—

Reine La removes her blouse and stands before the General, naked as the day she was born.

Reine La. O, my love! My love! Would you please be a gentleman and hang my gown in the closet behind you?

General Le, now thoroughly entranced by the wiles of the queen, walks over to the closet behind him in order to hang the queen's gown therein.

General. I cannot seem to find the clothing-rod, my love. Might I ask where it lies?

Reine La. 'Tis a walk-in closet, my beloved; so you will have to go in deeper.

The general lowers his head and submerges himself further into the closet.

General. Still I cannot find it, my love.

Reine La. Oh, deeper! 'Tis deeper, my love! Thou hast no choice but to go much deeper.

General. Ah! Here it—

As the General steps into the furthermost portion of the the closet, a beam of rotted wood, which had purposely laid in the closet, snaps beneath his feet and sends him headlong into a vat of festering shit.

General. Dear God! O, Dear God! [Gargling, wailing and gasping for air, the General drowns in the putridity.]

The queen, in response to the general's plight, rushes over to the door, peers her into the closet and leaves him to drown in the muddy offal.

Reine La. Herald, come quickly! Come! Come! Hurry!

The herald, who is munching on a biscuit, walks slowly into the chamber of the queen.

Herald. Milady. You've, uh— [The herald's statement is curtailed as he swallows a chunk of the biscuit.]

Reine La. Here, here! [The queen tosses the general's accoutrements to the herald.] —Listen. Go forth, don these here habiliments, then march out to the men and lead them to the terrible Behemoth.

Herald. With haste, madam, I go.

The herald dons the accoutrements, exits the castle and then passes through the petrified town—eventually arriving, under the guise of the late General, before a mass of the slumbering genitarmes.

Herald. Gentlemen! Gentlemen! I am proud to pronounce that I have signed a treaty with the queen, and that her town shall soon become a client of our kingdom! But we must first return unto our king and inform him of the news before returning hereunto eight days hence.

First Genitarme. Sir, as we're all quite weary from the march, would it not be better to simply tarry in yonder town for the night?

Herald. Wretch! Am I not the general? You shall go when I command! —Anyway, it is necessary that we inform the king of this most pressing matter by tomorrow.

Second Genitarme. Tomorrow? We shall never reach the kingdom by then!

Herald. Did I say tomorrow? I meant to say next week. —In the language of the people of Vilve, "tomorrow" means "next week" and "next week" means "poacher of quails." So, I have therefore confused the two. —Now, march men. March!

The herald, in the guise of the General, leads the men astray.

First Genitarme. Sir, are we not marching in the wrong direction?

Herald. Why do you ask so many questions? —The queen of yonder town has, not only provided me with a detailed map of the realm, but has even been so kind as to inform me of a more "direct" route.

Second Genitarme. Very well. But, as the skies are now enshrouded by the night, and the air is now encumbered by this soul-wrenching chill, would it not be best, my Lord, to bivouac on the heath here for the night?

Herald. You indolent wretch! We shall continue! Ask me again, and I shall resort to decimation.

Several hours of marching passes, and the soldiers begin to grow weary.

Herald. Here it is, men! —The final hundred metres!

The men cheer, and shout, and laugh, and sing—wailing with resounding roars—as they hasten toward the appointed place.

Herald. I shall stay behind in order to make sure that everyone reaches the town in an orderly manner.

Second Genitarme : What in the—

First Genitarme : Good God! [Gargling, gasping and wailing, the Genitarme dies.]

The herald flees once the cohort of genitarmes reach the dreaded "Behemoth."

Herald. Ha, ha!

I have brought ye fools to a mire of shit

From a land of glee, to a filthy pit!

And here, you'll rest, till the end of days

Eternally, to ponder on all y'r wretched ways!

End.

Elegies Written in a Country Commode.

2011-04-22T12:56:00.000-07:00

I have decided to create a separate blog for my doggerel and verse. It is called "Elegies Written in a Country Commode." The Guarinus Blog shall henceforth be used exclusively for prose, essays and the like.

In Support of Ice-Cold Showers.

2011-02-12T07:04:00.000-08:00

"Hoof! Bing-bong! Dah-dah-loo-lee-lee!"

- A madman on Chestnut Street, who was covered in excrement and filth.

[...]

[DIGRESSION—] There is quite an extensive history behind the taking of ice-cold showers, and many of the world's most celebrated men have been either denigrators, or proponents, of the act.

Lord Monboddo, for one, was a staunch supporter of the ice-cold shower. Each morning he would strip naked, stand on his porch, and shower beneath ice-cold water in order to set an example for the curious passer-bys; who probably grumbled, "Is he mad? —I don't know. —Must be." (Naturally, his 'little squire' was neither as full nor protuberant as it would have been had he been sitting in a courtroom, a church, or a musky coffin; but, none of this had concerned so great a man.)

Thomas à Becket who, as you all know, was mercilessly slaughtered in his own cathedral, was another proponent of cold-shower-taking, and had even gone so far as to convince his former companion, King Henry, to submit to so admirable an activity. Although, shortly after their friendship had disintegrated, and Becket had become far too immersed in the duties of archbishop, the regent ceased all cold-shower-taking and soon fell into the heresy of "warm-shower-taking."

The Romans, who are so famed for their luxurious baths (and the amount of time that they had squandered in such places), never ended one without a dip in the frigidarium (—if your Latin is poor, then separate the word and peer closely at the "frigid" bit.)

Lucian, however, who was not a Roman, but an Assyrian (and was also skeptical of all things), often mocked the Grecian students for having subjected themselves to the art of cold-shower-taking.

Though, even in spite of Lucian's pessimism, I can personally attest that the cold shower (1) closes the pours, which are naturally opened by the initial warmth of the shower (b) makes one more alert (3) more productive (a) and ultimately less inclined to engage in "lecherous past-times," as one's member is so irremediably shruken by the activity, that one would scarce be capable of even noticing its presence. —Listen. When I emerge from the depths of an ice-cold shower, it feels as if I'd stretched every ligament in my body, injected myself with a liquid form of Dah-loo-lee-hah-hah and, indeed, even emerged from an ice-cold shower. Energy, stamina and quickness reign, whilst langour, feebleness and idiocy are stomped beneath the heel like a damnable serpent.

In brief, I suggest that all take three to four—or, one to two—or, eight to eight—minutes out of their shower to turn the faucet-handle to the "C" and sacrifice a moment's discomfort for a day's worth of... O! Most refreshing bliss!

A Yearly Analysis.

2011-02-08T02:18:00.001-08:00

As a blogger, I am remiss—only creating one, two, or perhaps even nineteen blog posts a year. Most of them are rambling nonsense, I confess; but, perhaps there is some sad soul who is gleaning some small bit of pleasure from them.

To date, I have produced several pieces of doggerel, nine essays, a table, two chairs, and a salt-shaker.

— "A salt-shaker?"

Indeed, sir. I have produced one salt-shaker. It is an item of the finest craftsmanship. The edges are gilt, and the bottom is—well, I believe that I had forgotten to construct a bottom, and most of the salt seems to fall out, unless the shaker is set upright upon the table.

Allow me to abandon this strange digression, dear readers, and to resume my annual analysis.

I find that I am always wavering between two humours: the melancholic and the sanguine. The latter disposition leads me to write about things such as centaurs and satyrs, whilst the former leads me to write about "the Nature of Man-hole Covers."

— "Once again, you are failing to amuse me."

Be patient. Soon, I shall—no, in fact, I am no performance monkey.

Lest I be interrupted again, I'd better continue my yearly analysis with the utmost rigour and concentration. Most of the things that I have produced are sublime, of course. Longinus would have been proud to call me his pupil. (—I had to have one classical allusion in here. Otherwise, my readers would not think me learned, is that not true? It is true. You needn't even respond, dear friends.)

In truth, I have nothing more to write. Shall I try my hand at an extempore poem? Yes? What shall the subject be?

—"Fruiterers."

No. I have no desire to write about fruiterers.

—"Then what would you prefer to write about?"

The dulcimer, whose soothing sounds I am listening to during the writing of this strange analysis.

—"Is that so?"

That's thrice we've digressed, and no longer shall I attend to the simple-minded protestations of the chorus—the voice, or whatever it is that you wish to call it.

This year, I have produced a number of things that are, in truth, not sublime at all. None of them are worthy, much like this yearly analysis; but I shall nonetheless continue with ramblings, my drivel and my nonense. After all, one must remember what Epicurus had once said to Idomenus, "Remember the man who was asked why he toiled so hard at an art which few could ever know about: 'For me a few are enough; one is enough; having none is enough." He spoke the truth."

Ha, ha. Fool that he was! None is enough? He should've stopped at one, to be sure! —For, is it not true that he, the author, counts as one; or, does he choose not to count himself as that one? —It would not seem very philosophical to ignore one's self and to think oneself nothing.

But, I can write of these matters no longer.

The Art of Being Despised.

2011-02-02T20:06:00.001-08:00

There is an art to being despised, and if one should wish to be despised with as much fervour—with as much passion—as I, your author, am despised, then one had better be prudent and listen to all that I shall say about "the Art of Being Despised."

Now, if you are not already despised by all whom you come into contact with, then there are some things that you will naturally have to amend. First, it will be necessary to observe the people who despise you, and to ask yourself "Why? —Why does he, or she, despise me with so much passion?"

Have you offended the mother of the person in question? Then offend all the mothers of the world. Have you questioned the moral fibre of the person in question? Then question—nay, pitilessly upbraid—the moral fibre of all the people of the world.

But, in order to be skilled in the Art of Being Despised, it will first be necessary to be learned in all subjects. For, if you lack the power to wittily offend, then, dear friend, I regret to say that you also lack the power to be despised. And, without knowledge of divers subjects, it is almost impossible to offend with true force.

EXEMPLI GRATIA—If you are coupling with a woman, who has recently confided in you and has told you about an abortion that she has had, then tell her that she is, not only a murderous wretch, but that she shall, moreover, burn, for all eternity, in Hell.

But, I should note, before continuing with my examples, that there is a certain threshold that one must not cross. One must always, throughout the execution of one's art, remain civil—lest one fall into clutches of the law. Indeed, one's art must always be refined, and one must be able to execute it with the utmost finesse.

For example, it would be uncivil to punch a gentleman in the stomach, if he had merely asked you for the time. But to tell that gentleman that time itself has stopped, and that he himself is living in a parallel universe would, indeed, be reason enough for you to be despised. For, not only did what you (more than likely) fail to make that gentleman laugh, but it is also refusing him, in some way or another, all the information he had requested—namely, the time.

Now, to be loquacious, intelligent, arrogant and brash are all qualities that the artist should maintain. For, without the proper arrogance, loquacity and intellect, the artist shall never be despised with true passion. —Indeed, he shall rather be an object of indifference, and one about whom the world shall say, "He's all right, but not someone whom I'd care to see again."

No, I say! No! In the Art of Being Despised that is perhaps the worst criticism that the artist can incur. It is a telltale sign of mediocrity, and, if one should chance to hear it, then one had better just abandon the art altogether. For, if one cannot create as naturally as the squirrel cracks the nut—as the toad eats the fly—as the bear claws the man—, then one had better find some other art—perhaps ceramics or butter-churning—, because such people are not welcome in our lofty domain.

Now, to continue—being despised (which we shall henceforward refer to as "The Art") is something that all men (and a great deal of women) are subconciously skilled in, but few come ultimately to master. For, even if the execution of the art be natural, there will still be a great many men who fail to execute it in a masterful and refinèd fashion. The reason? These men are inferior.

Now, it will not be necessary to enumerate every jot and tittle relating to the art itself. For example, I shall not say, "If a woman asks whether or not she 'looks fat,' you tell her 'no, madam, insofar as I can tell, you appear to be morbidly obese.'"

These and suchlike things I will not bother to enumerate, dear friends; but, rather, I shall conclude with the following axiom: to be despised is to be.

Let me expand on that axiom in a more poetical manner.

To be despised is to be the fairest flower

That ever hath grown in the sylvan bower.

Abhorrence is a thing that is abstract and unseen,

Like the weather-beaten beaver or the pedant's overween.

(Which is a verb—I know, forsooth

Tho', I shall use it as a noun like "youth.")

The Peril of Kinmont Kremm.

2010-12-14T13:02:00.000-08:00

—

Have you begun, my dear amanuensis? You have? Why, man! You mustn't begin yet! Do not write what I am saying at present! Wait until I bid you write!

Now, erase all that you have hitherto written, and begin to write these words anew.

Ah! You fool—you loggerhead—you wretch—you miserable demon from out the belly of Dis! All right, as you refuse to comply, I shall simply tear this fragment from off the page once the telling of my tale is done.

Dear Reader: insofar as I am now plagued with a most pitiful case of illiteracy, it has therefore been incumbent upon me to hire a (seemingly incompetent) amanuensis. Thus, should one happen to notice any inappropriate punctuation, misspellings, or something of the like; please, allot your blame to the wretch who is now ticking away at the keys of the board, and not to me. His name is Wilhelm Nichtklug, and he is from the Great megalopolis of Stüftenheigen. It should be noted that his mother is quite a foul and surly—but, nay, we mustn't digress.

My tale begins in the year twenty-hundred and nine, near the city of Rimplehedron VI, in the north-western corner of Jùm. If you happen to be unfamiliar with the obscure Principality of Jùm, it should be noted that the Jùmites are notorious for their gross teetotalism—shunning everything from chocolate to rum. Yea, It is a “dry principality” through and through, and if one should even deign to sully his lip with the slightest scent of rum, or his tie with a faintest speck of truffle, that poor wretch shall find himself in the pillory, the stocks, or, perhaps, beneath the weight of the peine forte et dure—for weeks—nay, months, at least—months!

In brief, our kingdom smacks of gross intolerance, and it is an intolerance that I can no longer bear. Therefore, I've resolved that I must sabotage the system, and thereby liberate my dear, beloved people.

—

“Corruption! Corruption! ”, I shouted, as I wailed within the confines of my dank and narrow chamber. (And, such shouting, I would've continued for days, had my landlady not stormed, like a brute, into my chamber and swinged me fiercely with the butt of her broomstick.)

But the moment I tended my wounds and the condemned the foul world for its unpardonable follies, I quickly resolved that there was, without question, only one last thing that there was left for me to do.

— "I must assassinate our glorious sovereign," I muttered, "I must assassinate King Clorvis V!"; and I continued to mutter such strange proclamations till I was suddenly overcome by a fit of exultation, "Regicide! Belovèd regicide! Ha, ha!"

— “Regicide? What is't? —Well, whate'er it is, it'd best not sully the carpet, or you'll be cleanin' it!”, the wretched beldam then shouted from behind my chamber wall.

—

For weeks, I racked my brain—continually pondering my weapon of choice. I travelled from Dan to Beersheba in search of revolvers, blunderbusses, flame-throwers, truncheons, and even simple muzzleloaders, with which to cudgel him o'er the crown. But, at length, I came finally to decide upon... a simple bar of chocolate! Yea, I had decided that the most infallible weapon, with which to assassinate that ignoble wretch would, without doubt, be to plant a bitten truffle on his jerkin, or to splash a dab of chocolate on the folds of his cravat.

— "O! Such unparalleled ingenuity," quoth I, "such a supramortal modus operandi is yet to be ascribed to either god or man! —Soon! Soon shall I find myself as famed as Ravaillac! As dreaded as the daring Narcissus!"

—

28 March 1786

The King's Hotel, 13 kilometres outside of the Capital City.

Once my plot was soundly devised, and the final instalment on my bar of Tchombilin Chocolate had been paid to Chubby, the Czech Chocolatier; I sallied, with the utmost haste, yonder to the garden of the king's hotel.

[... (LACUNA)]

—

— "C'est dommage! I weash dat zee roi would be bettair avec his condissohn! N'est-ce pas?," enquired the French domestic, who was wiggling his toes in the light of the flame.

— "Yes," quoth the English domestic. "It is indeed a most terrible shame that our Lord must suffer from this condition. Oh, Gaston! I would to Jove that our king might overcome this ghastly illness! Pray, grant him sound health in these unfortunate latter years, dread Asclepius! Grant him health! I entreat thee, Jove! —But, come, Gaston! We needs must prepare for this morning's procession! The commons will be waiting in the city for their king!"

"Condition?", I thought unto myself, as I choked on the dust beneath the hassock. "The king is in poor health!", I muttered with a semi-muted cough. "Perhaps I should take some pity on the wretch." —But, quickly, I rescinded this foolish proposition, —"No, no! One cannot be moved by the misfortunes of a tyrant!"

Once my musings were finally complete, I noticed that the Frenchman was beginning to tip-toe, ever softly, down the length of the marble-clad staircase; and, the moment that he reached the bottom, shouted boldly through the vestibule door, "Keep zee dor shut, you crétins!"

"Indeed!", interjected the English domestic, who was hastening down the stairs behind the Frenchman. "Had you chanced to grow tired this evening, any bandit, or creature of the night, may very well have entered in our Lord's hotel. Have you no concern for the safety of your king?"

The Frenchman slammed the door violently, opened it again, and then slammed it a second time—seeming to have been discontented with the intensity of the first slam—, and then advanced into the kitchen below.

—

Ha, ha! —Well, ladies and gentlemen! Well! —I, Kinmont Kremm, was, at long last, alone! —There I stood! Upon the second story! With no one to disrupt my devious plot (save the slumbering sovereign himself).

But, unfortunately, it seemed that I had rolled perhaps rather too excitedly from out the bottom of the hassock. For, when I emerged, a dense cloud of dust began slowly to arise—soon overtaking every square inch of the hall. And, O, Jove! How those billows did pour, like black clouds of soot, o'er the barricades, and down into the vestibule below!

Desperately, I swatted my limbs, in hopes of allaying the augmentation of the dust. But such had only exacerbated the very strength of the clouds, as well as my own sensation to sneeze! I clambered hopelessly around the large, benighted hall, and groped for something—just something—that would chance to mute my sneeze! Fortunately, I discovered a satin cushion, and pressed the item firmly 'gainst the breadth of my nose. —Then! I sneezed with the force of a tropical tempest, and rubbed my mucous on the satin in the wake of the furious blow.

Yet! Shortly after I had oped mine eyes—struggling to squint through the darkness all around me—I noticed that I was now, not only amidst the clouds of flittering dust, but indeed, even amidst the clouds of many a fluttering feather! —I hastened to grasp at the backside of the pillow—a hole had been torn right through the fabric on its side!

I fled the scene hotfoot, like a bandit, and nervously rushed toward the chamber of the king. I decreased my pace gradually as I drew nearer to the threshold, and, when I had finally reached the centre, espied the sovereign snoring on his canopied bed. Oh! I laughed a dastardly laugh as I felt for the chocolate at the bottom of my pocket! Yes! I exulted in the sound of the crumbling plastic, and peered madly round the dimly-lit chamber.

For several minutes, I sought for the outfit of the sovereign; until, suddenly, within confines of my brain, I heard many an angel singing, "Lo and Behold! Ave Armarium!", and the doors of an armoire opened gloriously before me!

In a trance, I crawled toward the mahogany armoire, which seemed to have been enhaloed by a most refulgent light. I dipped my hands menacingly into the fabric of its belly, and groped, like a demon, for the outfit of the king! I groped and groped till, at length, I did finally feel the silky breeches in the palms of my very hands!

Hurrah! In a fit of the most ineffable delight, I hastened to poke my head into the wooden armoire! Only to discover that not one, but two!—two outfits were hanging therein!

Desperately, I drew them to my nostrils in an attempt to decipher which cloth was for the morrow. Fortunately, one of them smelt like the breath of a diseased calf—smothered in excrement from snout to hoof. But, the other!—Oh! the other smelt like the sweetest eglantine! And, I therefore knew which cloth was for the morrow, and clasped the suit indignantly in the palm of my hand!

Nervously, I removed the bar of chocolate from my pocket, and pitilessly smeared it on the less conspicuous portions of the cloth. I smeared it beneath the folds of his cravat, beneath the armpits of his jerkin, under the crotch, and on the hems of the breeches. And, once my mischievous task had been completed, I buffeted the cloth quite fiercely with the broadside of my fist, "What do ya' think of that, eh? Wretch! Ha, ha! What do you think?," and placed the small remainder of the chocolate in my stocking.

But this moment of glory soon faded. For the sound of striding footfalls 'gan approaching ever near. —"It's the Frenchman! I can hear the frog-man singing!"

— «Aux armes citoyens!»

“He approaches!”

— «Formez vos bataillons!»

“The Frenchman is coming!”

— «Marchons! Marchons!»

“What am I to do?”

— «Qu'un sang impur!»

Deprived of any reasonable expedient, I stumbled toward the sill of the balcony window—hopelessly staring at the ground that lay below. I pondered, nearly weeping, whether I should jump or no. But, alas! Such simply would not have been possible! For, the ground was a ground of marble, and the fiendish sentries were now soundly awake!

— «Abreuve nos sillons!»

Friends! Without another thought, I leapt into the king's armoire and sealed its doors firmly behind me! But, as I lay within its belly like a damned sitting duck—my senses being oppressed by the malodour of the outfit—, I felt the Frenchman tugging at the handle of the door, and pronouncing a number of strange and indistinct murmurs, "C'est fermé! Mon Dieu! Vas-y, tu..."

I tightened my hold upon the handle—holding it shut with Herculean strength—, lest I should be discovered in flagrante delicto, and thence consigned to a fate that even Dis would pale to ponder! But, O! Sweet Jove! After one exhausting minute of tugs and jerks—pulls and yanks—, the Frenchman concluded that the door was indeed locked. "Eh bien! Il faut que je trouve le clef! Mais, où? Merde, merde, merdre!—Monsieur Flugsbuy, viens ici!"

As the Frenchman leapt out into the hall to summon the Englishman, the voice of Necessity spoke unto me softly, “I present thee, Mr Kremm, with my son! Thou know'st him. His name is Invention!”

"Oh! Blessed Invention!" —I then grabbed the foul-smelling outfit, tore the threadbare cloth from my back, and changed, quite shoddily, into the garb of the king. And, ere the Frenchman could find the key, mount the staircase, and finally return unto the desolate chamber; I had already stolen, with the utmost haste, to a dimly-lighted powder room that lay nearby. (And, my appearance, I had rendered all the more convincing by dabbing several tubs' worth of powder on my cheeks.)

After I had applied the powder slipshod on my face, I quickly pressed my ear against the powder-room door—patiently awaiting the return of the Frenchman. —And, anon! I did hear his dainty footfalls approaching!

"It is now!", I muttered, "now, that the move must be made!"

And the moment that the footfalls grew loudest—the Frenchman now grousing about the dust and the feathers, upon which he had apparently slipped—, I burst through the door, in a fit of feigned madness, and stole down the length of the staircase.

“My Lord! Whither goest thou?—My Lord, s'il vous plaît!,” the Frenchman enquired in a more convincing accent.

I paused in the centre of the staircase, pressed the periwig firmly against my skull, and muttered loudly, “Gaston, am I not the king? Hast thou the authority to question a King?”

Without awaiting a response, I lumbered—nearly tumbling—down the length of the staircase; and, when I finally neared the vestibule door, I was able to hear the sentries just shouting and guffawing—laughing and japing—amid a foray of the most scurrilous punch-lines!

—"And, Ha, ha!—Listen, man! Listen!—the bloody swine said, 'I've got no rusty pot!' Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”

As I prepared to make way onto the portico, I quickly assumed some regal airs (with which to deceive those contemptible clowns).

—"Is that rum I smell, sirs?"

“No, my Lord—n—no,” quoth the more courageous of the two.

“Good,” I haughtily retorted (though, in truth, I was laughing madly in the bottom of my heart).

Thoroughly convinced of my successes, I quickly stole down the ragged old promenade—hoping that the Frenchman would not first discover the king ere my escape could soundly be made.

—

“My task,” quoth I, “is now complete! The king will soon arise from his slumber, don the sullied outfit, and then parade through the streets one hour hence! —Only to be denounced as a criminal of the state!"

Shortly after I escaped from the king's hotel, I began dancing, like a dervish, in the mud. Oh! I danced through the streets without the slightest bit of shame, and exulted, like a king, in the sublimity of my plot!

☞ “The crimes that I'm committing—ha!

Are doubtless the most fitting—ha!

As tyrants who ensnare—ha!

Their subjects must beware—ha, ha!

☞ The yoke upon our backs—ha!

Will shake until it cracks—ha!

By laws, we shan't abide—ha!

So I say, Regicide—ha, ha!

Yes, I say: Regicide!”

Ha, ha, ha, ha!

“Doggerel! Wretched poetaster! Fool!”, shouted an unknown voice from—I knew not where.

—

29 March 1786

Rimplehedron, the Capital City of Jum.

— “By Jove, no longer shall the Jùmites be oppressed!", I shouted, "No longer shall the Jùmites be repressed! Ha, ha! Soon shall I be y-clept, KINMONT KREMM, LE GRAND LIBÉRATEUR DE JUM!"

For a moment, I gazed at my countrymen from afar, and admired each one as a mother does, her child. I sighed with the uttermost delight, and whispered to myself, "Ah! How the rabble doth transmute into doves when one doth feel that he is their father!"

Although, after scarce one minute of these and suchlike musings, a strange and vulgar voice had grumbled from behind me, “Ey! Ey! 'Tis th' king, e'eryone! The king!”, and my beautiful doves reverted rather quickly back to rabble.

In an attempt do discern whether or not our king was truly come, I hastened to move the periwig from out my field of view. But, as I did, it seemed the mob was gazing fixedly at me.

— "No! The hairs of my periwig! No! Alas!"

It seemed that, over the course of my rapture, I had forgotten to doff the outfit of the king! Indeed, I had forgotten to cleanse my face of that detestable powder!

— "But, yes! Yes, of course!", thought I, "I can simply apprise these lowly wretches that I am not the king at all! I shall tell them that I am rather... but an actor of the stage! Of course!"

Soberly, I waved my arms, “Gentleman! Please! Please! I am not the king—please! I am merely an actor of the stage. However, I suspect that the king will be arriving any moment now. —But, I thank you for the flattery, compatriots! To know that I bear a resemblance to our monarch is—well, it is a most divine honour!”

After I had explained the nature of our queer misunderstanding, a number of those curs then began to stare, with a sceptical eye—some of them muttering "The king! 'Tis the king!", whilst others interjected "ain't the king! —Not the king!"

Then, for a reason that I would be incapable of explaining, a sudden silence seemed to overcome the mob. But, even in spite of that spell of sudden quiet, the multitude itself still continued to swell—swelling to horrifying proportions—swelling tenfold with the passing of a breath! O! It swelled and swelled until, suddenly, what appeared to be the elder of the mob then essayed to squeeze, with a nudge and shoulder, smack through the mass of the boundless throng.

At length, the old fool stood before me. He cast forth a humbling gaze. One moment, he shook his crest, and during another, shifted his waist; later, he pinched his chin, and, later still, he licked his lips. And, he continued to exhibit such singular behaviour until, suddenly, he thrust his hand into the pit of his trouser pocket—biting his tongue, and squinting one eye.

To me, it seemed that the wretch had been digging for all eternity! For, he dug and dug till, at length, some old, rusty monocle was delved from out the broadside of his thigh. Off the face of it, he swatted the crinkled fibres and crumbled lint—seeming to be occupied for yet another eternity. And then he spoke, with a terrifying croak, "May I... My Lord?"

With the monocle now dangling from his queer, leathern face, and the rust now staining the wrinkled socket of his eye, he punctiliously observed the regal fineries on my back. He picked at the thread and plucked the rubies, as the mob still swelled, with ferocity, behind him. Dubiously, he muttered, hummed and sighed; paused for a moment, and then stared at my person. He chuckled, like a philosopher in possession of newfound lore, and then pronounced before the faces of the ever-swelling throng, "My friends, behold! 'Tis the King!"

O! How those wretches pealed with shoutings—with discordant songs and inaudible praises! And, I, dear friends... well, I had been fixed to the ground in a state of horror! —But, no doubt, once reality had returned to me—indeed, once I had realised that the rabble was approaching, and that their eyes were now filling with this sort of strange and maddened adoration—, I stumbled upon the surface of the mud, and then began to flee from out their damnable sight.

But, alas! As I attempted to flee, one of those insolent wretches had grabbed me by the jerkin, and caused to me to fall upon the cobblestone below. —O! How the hearts of that mob did fill with anger—with scandle—with awe and pity—, as they beheld so royal a body strike a ground so filthy with a violence so intense!

— “What's this?,” the insolent cur who had dropped me pronounced, “What! His waistcoat is covered in—,” he stared fixedly at his finger, “—in chocolate!”

O, Jove! When the dumb wretch had pronounced those words, it seemed the whole world began to roar with cries of "villain, traitor, wretch!" —How mercilessly their imprecations poured, like Phoebean arrows on the wretched Niobids! And, most important, how I did flee from out their damnèd sight—questioning myself, with unsurity, as I ran. "No, no! I could not have taken the wrong outfit! —But, did I? No! It simply cannot be!"

As I fled, I essayed to tend my wounds, but it seemed the restive mob was approaching ever near! O! Several of the more light-footed curs even began groping, like fiends, at my cravat, while several of the others were busy tearing some lumps of chocolate from my back!

I desperately shouted as I ran—shouting, alas, to no avail!—, "I am not the king, comrades! Please! Believe me!" O! I ran and ran, till I came suddenly to espy a darkling nook, nestling softly nigh an old ruelle. And, without a thought—without a breath, or a sober glance behind—, I thrust my person into the shadows of its form.

—

The moment that I had caught my breath, and came to be convinced that I was soundly in the clear; my heart was overcome with the strangest curiosity. —That is to say, never before had I indulged in the coveted delights of chocolate, and I therefore could not help but think, "Why! It would be harmless to dab a small portion on my lips, or to place a whole lump right smack upon my tongue!"

Thus, I decided to rummage through the foul-smelling offal, in search of both the breeches and the shirt (these items, I had doffed upon enterting the nook. —Pray, forgive me for not having mentioned this particular). But, after I had searched for several minutes or more, I came only to discover some threadbare sack, which had been covered almost entirely in filth. —"Well, perhaps I'd better clothe my naked flesh herewith," I thought, before continuing with my search.

I searched with the utmost rigour until, suddenly! I was jabbed in the ankle and collapsed. "O, Paris! Thou has felled sad Achilles once again!"

As I tore the wretched stockings from my feet, I heard something drop upon the mud-laden ground. I groped around madly, like a gaoler for his key, until, eventually, I discovered a small item wrapped in plastic. In a state of comparative bemusement, I hastened to cleave the strange item right in twain, and—by Jove—it was indeed the remaining bit of chocolate!—the chocolate which I had used to assassinate the king!

Oh! I did hold the item high above my person—holding it up steadily before a silky ray of light—, and noticed that the chocolate was indeed— No! Alas! The chocolate was white in colour! —Why! Doubtless, this had been contrary to my previous conception of chocolate; a thing which I had thought to be brown in colour (perchance even a dark shade of blue). —But, no! —Not white! Never white!

Nervously, I laughed for a moment, and continued to observe the little bon-bon in my hand. And, at length, I took a most hearty bite. —It seemed to taste rather like a sweet vanilla bean.

Quite perplexed, I reached for the wrapper in my pocket, held it up high before the silky ray of light, and—O, sweet Jove! The words! Alas! The words did read, "White Tchombilin Chocolate!"

Oh! How frustratedly I shouted! How I shouted in the core of my damn, sickenèd heart! But, before I had even dared to shout another word, I cower'd beneath the pile of disorderly rubbish (hoping not to be discovered within the confines of the nook and thence denounced as a criminal of the state). —"O! Thou damnable villain! Thou wretch! Oh! Charlie, the contemptible Czech, has given me white—vanilla chocolate! That under-handed fiend has given me white chocolate!"

In a rage, I thrust the wrapper rather roughly 'gainst the ground, and pulled the king's breeches from out the pile. I then pinched the item daintily by the waist, held it up clearly before the trusty ray of light, and observed that the shirt had been smothered in something comparatively darker!—something which I had thought—nay, I had known to be—chocolate!

— "Oh! —Ha, ha! —Oh, Jove! It appears that the noble, the all-divine sovereign of the great, vast country of Jùm have already been engaging in the foulest—indeed, the very gravest—of crimes! Yes! Our dread and noble Lord is already a consumer of the things that he so rigorously proscribes! Oh! Oh—ho! Ho, ho! This man is a most treacherous—a most base, ignoble, foul, and abhorrent—wretch! Yes! I pronounce that King Clorvis shall, indeed, be denounced an enemy of the state! —And, Kinmont Kremm shall be the man to denounce him!"

Why! It seemed that everything—my entire plot—had all been done but in vain! It was all... —But, no! No! Rather, my discovery has merely hastened the disclosure of his crimes! Yes, of course!

Slowly, I emerged from out the darkness of the nook, donning my sack as a monk does, his habit; and then began to walk upon the cobblestone streets. In my hand, I grasped the breeches and the shirt, which were covered almost entirely in chocolate, and then thrust them, with the uttermost delight, above the dome of my enhaloèd crest! And, in a loud, stentanorian voice, I addressed the people with the forthcoming words, "Behold! The cloth which now lies in my hand is the garb of none other than your dear, beloved sovereign! Listen! Listen to the history, my comrades! This item, I had discovered in the king's armoire! —I decided to expropriate it on behalf of the state, and, my dear countrymen, I feel it is incumbent upon me to apprize you of this most important matter! Therefore—!"

But, after I had removed my gaze from the heavens, and cast it back toward the humbler earth; I beheld a most fearsome sight! —All about the street lay sickly youths, and children being attended to by surgeons. The whole lot of them were vomitting in buckets, as if they'd been stricken by the plague, or afflicted with catarrh! But, was it possible that a dreadful pestilence could have ravished the whole city whilst I had lain within the confines of the nook? —And, would you know it! Peering down upon the horrors of that scene—standing atop a nobleman's balcony—was, indeed, the dread Clorvis himself! —There he stood! The villain in all his splendour!

But, the very instant that I attempted to avenge that traitor's crimes by accusing him before the eyes of all of Jùm—raising my right-arm upward and preparing to extend my finger—, I was swept right clean off my feet by a number of elite Jumitian soldiers. And, alas! Before I was even able to protest, those wretched had bound me, gagged me, and threw me in a cage—locking me in its belly like some damnèd brute!

As the soldiers bore me to prison, I descried the wretched throngs lying prostrate 'fore the king. Some of them appeared to be lauding the "king's new fashion," whilst others were condemning the "notorious imposter," who had supposedly caused scores of children to fall ill.

I was paraded like a clown through the streets, as I lay amid the filth, and the squalour, of the cage. Oh! I ran the vicious gauntlet of stick-poking, stone-throwing, spitting and harsh upbraidings. And, as those stones, and those spittles, were being showered on my person, I was able to hear the armèd men discussing the king's so-called "fashion."

—"Do you truly fancy the caulk-and-feather jerkin? I rather find it to be a bit daft."

"Yes, William. Of course I fancy it! 'Tis a testament to our king's great innovation!", the armed man replied to his inquisitor.

Shortly after I had heard of the "caulk-and-feather fashion," I came to a most startling realisation! —I muttered madly through the saliva-laden gag, "White chocolate! Feathers and white chocolate! The feathers of his satin pillow!"

“Hold your tongue, dog!,” the sentry shouted, as he poked me fiercely with the blunt-end of his pike.

But, nay! I did not hold my tongue! Rather, I pronounced the very truth unto the world! —Even if the truth would be the death of me, friends!

I inched toward the breeches that were lying in the cage, and struggled to grasp them with the tips of my fingers. But, as my pinky had lain within a hair's breadth of the thread, one of the soldiers had swooped the item clean up with his pike. He then shoved the filthy fabric in my face and shouted, "Yeah! Now ya' can feel what scores o' lads did feel when you cozened 'em into eatin' the king's shit!"

—“What?" I softly muttered.

—"What!", I repeated. "It could not be!," I continued, as I gagged on the odour of the foul-smelling cloth. "That! —Oh, no! —That was the illness whereof the domestics had spoken! —O, Jove! No, no! Alas! Our sovereign is afflicted with an incurable illness of the bowels! The jerkin, the waistcoat, the breeches and the shirt had all been covered in... excrement! Oh, Lord! I had simply not been able to perceive the faeces through the all-consuming darkness of the hall! I had simply not been able to perceive it! —I was too drunk on the glory of my successes!"

After this sobering realisation had been made, I began to grow comparatively less restive, dear friends. One may even say that I began to grow obedient. —Perhaps I had been in shock, or perhaps I had just begun to grow contented with my sad and doleful fate.

Friends, I now address you—indeed, I have been addressing you—from the guillotine whereunto I have been consigned. My dear amanuensis (simple though he is) has been inditing every word that I pronounce.

The throng is now jibing, as the blade's above my neck, and the executor's stop-watch is—

Shamus & The Idiot: A Fashionable Comedy.

2010-12-10T15:59:00.001-08:00

Shamus: I do?

Idiot : Well, not always. It's just that you...

Shamus : That I...

Idiot: Just sometimes, you know, you tend to...

Shamus: (clears throat)

Idiot: Precisely.

Shamus: What?

Idiot: Well, it's just that...

Shamus: Yes?

Idiot: Good. Then, you understand.

Shamus: No.

Idiot: Oh, perhaps I should just...

Shamus: You should probably...

Idiot: No, no. I can't.

Shamus: Would it be better if we...?

Idiot: No.

(The idiot lets out an awkward laugh, which is scarcely convincing in its sincerity. Shamus observes the wretched little creature from head to toe—from ear to ear—from nipple to nipple. Both characters stare at one another, unabashedly, in an attempt to decipher what the other has been saying all the while.)

Shamus: Say, do you believe that there's much humour in the act of awkwardly abandoning a sentence?

Idiot: Perhaps. —But, if we are to come to an absolute, empirical conclusion, we must first catch the culprit (i.e. the awkwardly abandoned sentence) in a sailcloth; and, thereafter, we must test for the precise amount of humour that is actually running through the veins of the beast. If not, then...

Shamus: Then...

Idiot: Catch it! —Snare the wretch! —But, you've...

Shamus: I've...

Idiot: There he goes again! By God! —That's twice you've missed him.

Shamus: Perhaps if we leave a bit of cheese at the end of the ellipsis, he will fall for the bait and...

Idiot: ...we can snare him in the net?

Shamus: Of course. It's almost...

Idiot: Well...?

Shamus: You know, it's...

Idiot: Damn! We forgot the cheese. —Do you have any?

Shamus: No. Do you?

Idiot: One moment.

EDITOR: ☞ 䌨

Shamus: (winces in disgust)

Idiot: What in God's name is that? That's not cheese. That's more like...

EDITOR: I found it in Chinatown somewhere. I don't know...

Idiot: What don't you know?

EDITOR: I don't know...

Idiot: (Swipes the air with his butterfly net). —I've got it! Ha, ha! I've got it!

(The Idiot peers into his butterfly net with great excitement, but soon tosses the net aside in agitation.)

Shamus: Did you catch it?

Idiot: No. But, I did kill the editor.

Shamus: All right. Well, here's something that just might work... ☞ ;

Idiot: That's not a piece of a cheese. That's a semicolon.

Shamus: He's not going to know the difference. If you just...

Idiot: If I just...

Shamus: Go! Go! —Oh, no! Not again!

Idiot: Well, what can I say? Maybe it's... ß∑œ∂¶™¥ πø“µ ˚∆˙©æß«»¢√∫ µƒ˚∆˙æœ∑∂¶¶

Shamus: What are you doing?

Idiot: What? It's more tempting, isn't it?

Shamus: No. Just use the semicolon. It's not as if we're intending to...;

Idiot: Intending to...;

Shamus: You've frightened it away!

Idiot: How?

Shamus: Incorrect usage of the semicolon!

Idiot: What? Yours wasn't any more correct than mine!

Shamus: This is absurd.

Idiot: Well, I simply wanted to...

Shamus: (Peers angrily at the Idiot.)

Idiot: You know, it was just...

Shamus: (Swipes the air with his butterfly net). —Go, go! Get the tank!

Idiot: Which tank?

Shamus: The tank!

Idiot: But, I've only just...

(Shamus fumbles around atop the net, attempting to contain the incensed beast.)

Shamus: Only just...?

Idiot: It's escaped!

Shamus: I told you to get the tank! Now the beast has scurried off into the wild! —For months to come, he will be plaguing coffee shops, family gatherings and poorly-crafted comedies. —Oh! the devil take the soul of that wretch!

Idiot: Well, at least he shan't be plaguing us anytime soon.

Shamus: There is much truth in what you say, dear Idiot. And, now perhaps we can have an intelligible conversation for once.

Idiot: Perhaps...

Complaint Written in a Loud Public Library.

2010-09-27T17:19:00.000-07:00

How lamentable my situation is! (Or, rather, how lamentable the very place, wherein I toil, seems to be.)

—"Where do I toil?", you ask?

—"The Bibliotheca," I respond, "—a place which has the appearance of a medieval Scriptorium, but the sanctity of dumpster."

Within this place, there is a single rule, "Be quiet, and do not speak." (Of course, it would not be proper to remove one's clothes, imbibe spirits or release copious amounts of methane in this place; but, all of these comandments are not fundamental rules, and one cannot definitively state whether or not they are truly transgressions.)

Though, the wretches who inhabit these walls—for a reason that I fail to comprehend—find that they must speak and squeal and sneeze and spurt like a bevy of contemptible demons!

"Ha, ha!," one laughs. —But, I am not amused.

"Where's the history of Pantagruel?", a scurvy-headed man, with one eye and a gimp leg enquires—so that everyone shall think him an erudite creature.

Another man was busy thanking one of the librarians in a loud, stentorian voice—fit only for a colosseum—when, suddenly, his expressions of thankfulness were interrupted by the hollow sound of a toddler's body colliding with the marble-laden ground. It appeared that the child had tripped over his own shoe-lace...

"To hell with the lot of you," I say!

"You tactless fiends are too loud," I say

But then they whisper, and laugh and jape and cry—

Proclaiming, "We will laugh even louder when you die!"

(Hah! Indeed, I shall die from frustration, and from the inconsiderateness of your abhorrent voices! —Wretched fiends!)

Many of them seem to be emitting an intolerable odour, but that does not bother me particularly.

Many of them are no less beautiful than the grotesques of Da Vinci, but that does not upset me.

It is the noises that are coming from their foul, saliva-laden mouths that I cannot bear—that make me want to ascend the tallest bookshelf and say, "Quiet! You contemptible fiends! Are you ignorant of the one and only law which dictates the behaviour of this here unholy edifice? Take your weeping babes, your jingling devices, your snapping fingers and see to the door—and thence, to the sulfurous pit of Dis!"

To be tactful is to be tolerable. But, with the sound of wheeling carts and chattering youths, I shall never put my mind at ease!

The Celibate's Address.

2010-06-09T11:47:00.000-07:00

In the darkness of the night,

As I lie upon my bed,

I speak unto you truly

With these words inside my head.

I've never felt that aching

Nor that panging in my heart—

Nor, the muscles in my loins,

Have they ever 'gun to start.

I've never dreamt of woman

Nor the sheen upon her tress—

Nor ever dropped a mirror

Just to peak beneath her dress.

Their scheming—it appalls me!

How they ruin men's production!

(With those tiny little idols

That some babes do use for suction!)

O! Courting! 'Tis a game!

One will flee and one pursue

And seldom will one say

Unto the other, "I love you."

Indeed, my verse is sour.

It is doggerel, aye, at best.

(Though, least I am not pining

Just to suckle on some breast).

How filthy, dirty, wretched!—

How opprobrious—to shame!

O, Curse the wench who bore you!

And, yes, curse your damnèd name!

'Tis women whom you love!

And, in women do you trust.

(But, someday, one will shank you

As your face is in her bust.)

Why woman? —There is sunshine!

Beaches, mountains, rain!

And all the little games that just

Could keep a good man sane.

There's Tacitus and Livy—

There is Leibniz, there is Hume,

And many little verses you can

Write now with your plume.

But, woman—what's it worth?

Many hours spent in wooing—

In chittering and chattering—

In thinking and pursuing.

For a transitory smile!—

The completion of a game!

Inhaling an' exhaling

Till you render yourself lame.

I've been there!—It is nothing!

I've done it!—I have yawned!

I've brooded, thought and worried.

I've pursued, and I have fawned.

But now, I simply write—

In the darkness of the night—

To tell you simple youths

What is wrong and what is right.

And though my thoughts are partial

And though my heart is cold—

I hope that you will listen

To the things which you've been told.

The Ass's Thumb.

2010-05-16T11:18:00.001-07:00

ON THE THIRTEENTH DAY of March, in the year seventeen hundred and thirty two, a man named Winston Littleton had ventured to the market in search of meat. But, Winston did not desire just any meat, but rather, pounds upon pounds of the county's freshest meat.

"Meat," Winston tersely pronounced.

"Aye, it's a butcher's shop," said the butcher, as he chopped through a bloody slab of meat.

"Meat," Winston repeated.

"Aye, then you want some meat," muttered the butcher, who seemed to have been more interested in the meat than the words of the dull-brained Winston.

"Meat!" Winston shouted rather shrilly.

"All right, then. You'd like some meat. But, startle my clients again, and you'll—," the butcher chopped a slab of meat in two, "—you'll be the meat."

"Well!," Winston interjected in a fairly collected tone.

"What is it that you want, boy? Say it," the butcher shouted in an increasingly uncivil tone.

"It is meat, sir, that I desire; and for meat, I shall continue to search," Winston proudly announced before the face of the disinterested butcher.

The butcher dropped his knife upon the bloodied slab of meat, and enquired of Winston in a more civil manner, "Well, is there any specific meat that you would like purchase today, sir?"

"Meat!", Winston insolently shouted. This time, even louder than before.

"Well, my friend, we have recently received a shipment of the most exotic—the most delectable—meat that has touched down this side of the Atlantic," the butcher said in a more reverential tone.

"Indeed? But, of what animal is this meat, sir?", Winston, who had rightly been excited by this wonderful news, inquired of the smiling butcher.

"Well, the meat is called, 'ass's thumb'," replied the butcher.

"Ass's thumb? But, asses do not have thumbs, sir. They have hooves! Ha, ha! Hooves!"

"This is true. But, there is one particular breed of ass that does indeed have thumbs, sir. Search it." retorted the butcher with widening eyes.

"Hah! Well, let me see the meat then. I've not agreed to buy it, but I only wish to prove this ludicrous argument of yours wrong. For, it is the known that no ass in all the world has thumbs! You clearly must've mistaken some sort of fungal outgrowth for a thumb—as if an ass could have the extremities of a man!," Winston proclaimed before the eyes of the butcher—laughing rather madly in the bottom of his heart.

"You may see the meat, sir. But, first, it is incumbent upon me to request that you sign this piece of paper. It is an agreement stating that you, a patron of this here butcher's shop, agree to behold—and consider for consumption—the rare and coveted ass's thumb," the butcher announced as he grabbed a sheet of paper from beneath the counter-top.

"Pen?," inquired Winston as he stared at the paper that the butcher had just placed upon the counter.

"Underneath the paper," the butcher uttered.

And, as Winston moved his hand to grab the pen, the butcher slammed his knife upon Winston's slender thumb!—a splatter of blood squirted smack upon his face. The butcher then wrapped the slab of meat that he'd just sliced, and taped it up neatly in the bloodied sheet of paper. He pressed the largest button on the register and delighted in the sound of the monophonic "BING!"

"That will be seventeen livres, sir."

But, Winston had been far too occupied with rolling around in a puddle of his own blood to attend to the requests of the delighted butcher.

The Vaudevillian Aristocrats.

2010-05-11T17:04:00.000-07:00

DURING THE SPRING of 2009, I completed a work entitled, The Vaudistocracy. The objective of this work was to delineate the evolution of the actor and, in a juxtapositional manner, to delineate the devolution of the aristocrat.

Although this work has been structured as a dialogue, and the exchanges between the characters appear to be quite farcical at times, one should not consequently disregard the topic, about which these two characters speak, as "light, unimportant nonsense." On the contrary, the topic about which these two characters speak is a matter of great importance. For, it draws attention to one particular plague that is ravishing the social structure of the West (one which, I believe, can ultimately be remedied by the Occidental people).

It concerns the aristocratic nature of the vaudevillians (or, screen actors) in the societies of the modern West (particularly in the United States).

In the first part, I begin by delineating the actor's gensis in ancient Rome. I then attempt to illustrate how, in the Roman Republic, the position of the actor was quite similar to that of the slave. And, I continue by describing the social condition of the patrician, and how the actor had been more or less subordinate to that person. (Of course, I do not neglect to mention the laws which had been created in order to debar any noble from even partaking in stage-plays themselves.)

In the second part, I endeavour to describe the role of the actor in Byzantium; how the Empress Theodora and Justinian had managed to lift the actor from out the mire of slavery, etc. (This latter instance I chose to illustrate by relating the history of the Empress Theodora herself; how she had been a stage actress long before she converted to Monophytism and eschewed the art of acting altogether.)

I then continue by remarking how, even in spite of her renunciation of the theatre, Justinian had been compelled to create a new law, permitting all actors to become respectable citizens of the Byzantium (that is, if one first agrees to become a faithful Christian and, second, renounces the acting profession altogether.) Most of these laws had been published by Justinian in his Corpus Juris Civlis.

In the third part of this work, I attempt to describe Nell Gwynn, the paramour of Charles II of England; and the illegitimate child to whom she had given birth. I then continue by delineating the role of the aristocrats in the 17th and 18th centuries, and draw some parallels to the actors (or, 'vaudistocrats') of today. For example,

(1) An aristocrat was not renowned for what he did, but rather, for who he was.

(2) An aristocrat was an exemplar of fashion, and wielded a great deal of cultural clout (in terms of art, literature and other tastes).

(3) An aristocrat, by virtue of his title, wields a great deal of political clout. He was hearkened unto attentively by the masses; not because of his wisdom, but rather, because of his rank and inordinate fortune.

(4) The aristocrat is able to behave with virtual impunity.

(5) It is every commoner's dream to someday become the aristocrat, and every aristocrat's nightmare to someday become the commoner.

Now, at a later stage in the work, I compare some of these qualities with those of the actor, entertainer or celebrity of the modern West; who is thrust in that position by the television or the silver screen on which they perform.

(1) An actor, entertainer, celebritiy (whom we shall choose to call a "vaudistocrat" for the time) is not renowned for what he does (socially), but rather, for who he is.

(2) A vaudistocrat is an exemplar of fashion, who wields a great deal of cultural clout (in terms of popular music and film).

(3) A vaudistocrat wields a great deal of political clout, as such persons "endorse" politicians before each election, so that the politician may boast the support of a given vaudistocrat. They are hearkened unto more attentively than either the philosopher or the politician, not because of their fortune, but because of who they are.

(4) The vaudistocrat is able to behave with virtual impunity.

(5) The vaudistocrat is admired by the masses.

(6) It is every commoner's dream to someday become the vaudistocrat (celebrity, entertainer, etc.), and every vaudistocrat's nightmare to someday become the commoner (to lose their fame, political clout, etc.).

(7) Some are upstarts (new entertainers) and others have descended from Acting or Entertaining Dynasty (i.e. The Barrymore Dynasty)—all of which have descneded from vaudeville.

The aforementioned are merely some of the parallels between the vaudistocrat and the aristocrat.

But, before I proceed any further, I believe that I'd better remark why it is that I've chosen to deem these characters "vaudevillian aristocrats" (or, vaudistocrats).

I have done this in order to emphasise how the screen actor—as well as Hollywood itself—is merely an expansion of early 20th-century vaudeville. Indeed, a great many silent film actors, as well as early feature film actors, began their careers in the vaudevillian domain. (Not to mention, some of the earliest films themselves were first shown in vaudevillian theatres.) And, therefore, both the screen actor and film itself has an inseparable, genealogical link to vaudeville.

In the final part, I attempt to enumerate the various definitions of the word 'aristocrat' (e.g. that of Hobbes and Diogenes Laërtius), as well as the vaudistocrat's ability to rise to a position in the state more readily than the philosopher or the commoner. I then enumerate several actors, who have risen to positions in state—such as Helen Gahagan, Ronald Reagan, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Jesse Ventura, José Estrada, the Kaczynski Twins, etc.; as well as divers members of the Indian Parliament who have emerged from the acting profession. I also touch lightly upon the instance of Princess Grace Kelly, who married the Prince of Monaco, and whose son is a veritable product of an American vaudistocrat and a European aristocrat (or, in this case, a Prince).

In brief, throughout this dialogue, I attempt to address how primitive it is for people to laud, admire, listen to, and elect as their leaders, those men and women whom they merely see on television or in film—those fantastical entities who provide us with virtual company in the comfort of our homes. —Such groundless adulation needs to be remedied, and should no longer persist in the West.

For ages, people have struggled, fought for and died in the name of equality and a complete abolition of the aristocracy. But, the indolent and mesmerized people of a less enlightened age have allowed for a resurgence of the aristocracy (i.e. the vaudistocracy).

If we have any respect for ourselves, then we will no longer allow these people to insult both the energies and the struggles of our forbears, but will rather refuse to adulate such people, and will kick the gilded pedestal out from under their feet.

We dream to be vaudistocrats, we name our children after vaudistocrats, we listen attentively to the vaudistocrats, and, most important, we love the vaudistocrats. Why?

[ Read the VAUDISTOCRACY (HTML). ]

[ Purchase a paperback copy of The VAUDISTOCRACY. ]

The Lovelorn Sigh.

2010-05-01T03:56:00.000-07:00

THERE ARE MANY reasons why one could sigh, should sigh, or would even want to sigh. But, there is one particular sigh that, in my humble opinion (well, in truth my opinion is not all that humble, as I am man of the utmost brilance [sic]), outshines the glory—the refulgence—of every other sigh. And, that is the "Lovelorn Sigh."

When the Lovelorn Sigh is released from out the mouth of the sigher; his eyes are usually cast upward—up, up! towards the lofty heavens—, and his mind is often pondering the very nature of his heart. —He inhales deeply, and suspires... And, oh! What a suspiration it is!

(Surely, I could now attempt to type how I think the sigh would sound—but I fear that I would fail to do it justice.)

—But, I needs must attempt to do it justice:

"Haaahhhnnn... Mmmmmmmt..."

Normally, there would not be a "T" at the end of this onomatopoeic suspiration, but, I happened to inhale a mosquito toward the end of my sigh... I began, sustained it—and...

☞ in the mosquito flew!

But, please—please—allow us to return to my analysis of the Lovelorn Sigh.

This sigh, unlike the Sigh of Monotony, the Sigh of Frustration, or the Sigh of Fatigue; is classed in a genus of its own. It is unique in that it is the only true sigh of Desperation. —To expand a bit further: when one releases a sigh of monotony, one knows that one will soon escape from the monotonous lecture, or the tiresome film to which one has been subjected; when one sighs in frustration, one knows that the nose-picking child will eventually stop buffeting one on the shin with a plastic club; when one sighs in fatigue, one knows that a yawn, or sleep itself, will soon liberate one from one's weariness. Though, when one sighs over the loss of one's love, one is nearly certain that there will be no refuge. (Perhaps time will mitigate one's pain, but this will by no means be an absolute refuge.)

In brief, the Lovelorn sigh is the Queen of all sighs! She is unique in her very own right, and all the other sighs do admire her brilliance! The sighs—they sigh in admiration! (Which brings me to the Adulatory Sigh).

But, lest I plummet deep into the Abyss of Great Confusion, please allow me to tabulate the divers genera of Sighs.

1. The Negative Sighs : The Sigh of Monotony, the Sigh of Frustration, the Sigh of Fatigue.

2. The Positive Sighs : The Sigh of Relief, the Sigh of Admiration, the Sigh of Delight.

3. The Lovelorn Sigh : The Lovelorn Sigh.

Naturally, there are more species of the Sigh within the Negative and Positive genera. But, for the time, I shall only list several (as I am by no means a taxonomist).

Ahhh... There is so much to say in regard to this sigh! (Here is another specie of the Sigh: the Overwhelmed Sigh).

Gentle reader: the next time that you and your love (or, if you happen to be like me, you and your ewe) are found in tight embrace; just think about the emotions that would surge throughout your breast if your lover were to say, "I can no longer see you!" (or, in the parenthetical case, 'Baaa.') — Sure! You would be choked up for a moment — But, I assure you, the very moment that you come to your senses, a long, painful, and lovelorn sigh would flow softly from out your chaffèd lips—lips that, long ago, were endlessly entwined with the lips of the one for whom you pine! —Ah! It breaks my heart to think—to think that my dear, belovèd ewe, Cleopatra, would leave me for a dog—or a large amphibian! I weep as I ponder such a tragedy!

Dear friends, I can no longer continue with my tale (these contingencies are far too horrifying). And, so I end with the End-of-A-Beautiful-Story Sigh. — But, my sighs — they do not stop here! For, I shall sigh with a Sigh of Hope that, someday, I too may be in love—and, when I lose that love, that I too may be the maker of a true, Lovelorn sigh.

The Pedant.

2010-04-26T18:36:00.000-07:00

I HAVE LONG BEEN awaiting the arrival of a man, whom the people in the city of Ragusa call "The Pedant". He has travelled from city to city, from town to town—professing little, though showing off much—under the title of (what we call) a "pedant."

But, before I begin to describe what this man does, how he does it, and with what accuracy it is done; I believe that I'd better first describe his condition, where he was educated, and all the divers subjects that my humble readers needs must know.

First, when our pedant was released from out the womb, he spoke the words "Deus vobiscum"—in perfect Latin! without error or flawed pronunciation. There and then, it was known that "he was destined to be a pedant." The doctor did not pronounce it neither girl nor boy—neither healthy nor deformed—, but, pedant (and pedant alone).

At the age of six, he could have perplexed great Socrates with his Greek, and Pierre Augustin de Beaumarchais with the candour of his French. At the age of twelve, he was awarded the title 'Unparalleled Genius Magna Cum Laude, Noli me tangere, et cetera, ad infinitium' by the Dean of Clefton-Lee University (a man who had established himself already as a creature of great intellectual penetration—evinced by his divers honours, titles and awards—awards so lofty that I'd drown in a sea of Latin just beginning to enumerate it all with my pen!). At the age of thirteen, it was decided (by the Honourary Fathers at the University of the Universal Elite) that there should be placed two glorious casts of marble on our pedant's legs. "For this," thought the elder pedants, "would surely make our younger pedant much like a Greek!"

But, at the age of fourteen, it was decided that these strange, marble casts should be removed (as our pedant had been lying face down in the dirt from the age of thirteen until that decision was made). At the age of fifteen, the pedant was lauded for his genius—lauded the world over!—and bestowed with many a great honour (i.e. honourary lecturer on all topics concerning the Development of the Latrine During the Reign of Elagabalus to the Circumference of Nefertiti's Cranium—Genius of Geniuses, Agnus Dei, and Presumed Creator of the Heavens and the Earth). In brief, by the age of thirty-two, the pedant was permitted to: enter into any man's wife (so long as he had remembered to remind her that he was a man of great INTELLECTUAL penetration), speak boldly on any matter whatever, and travel to any city round the globe (completely gratis!)—only to stand before the rostrum and say, "I, beloved inferiors, am the pedant" (in Latin, of course).

Now, after I'd been awaiting for many an hour beneath the shadow of great Poseidon's statue... the pedant finally arrived! There he stood! The pedant—in all his glory! My heart stopped in adulation!—but soon, I was resuscitated by the selfsame glory! And—Oh! I beckoned all the seraphs in heaven to gather and behold the refulgence of this figure! I hastened to gather all of the loiterers, soliciters and pimps; and then thrust them 'fore the rays that were ever shining forth—shining from the countenance of this glorious man! ... —No! We cannot call him a man! —"Excuse my effrontery!," I shouted—prostrating myself before his path.

Quavering, I continued to lay prostrate before the man—nay, the GOD—who was slowly drawing nigh unto my person! His feet!—they didn't touch the ground as he walked!— I was muttering, "Pardon me! Pardonnez-moi! Entschuldigen Sie!" and, if I knew how to say it in Latin, I would have—I would have said it, friends! —Then! His palm hovered softly 'bove my shoulder! (Oh, it felt like the feathers of an angel!—sliding ever softly 'pon the surface of my brow!)

He spoke, "Je aimer être avec vous, Mon Copain"

Appalling! The eloquence of this man filled my breast with disgust! Quickly, I buffeted the contemptible wretch o'er the crown with a vellum-bound folio, and retreated to my study—resolving, thenceforth and forever, never to put my trust in any pedant whatsoever—no matter how many honours, titles, degrees, or pounds the contemptible wretch may boast.

Sport: The Common Man's Catalyst for Conversation.

2010-04-08T02:59:00.000-07:00

AS SOMEONE WHO is not particularly interested in sport, but as someone who is immersed in a society that is; I have always attempted to understand the world's fascination with that pastime: why people are so passionate about it, why so much money is invested in it, and why it is that people do speak speak of it so often.

Some may argue that it is "merely entertainment, and nothing more." But, as I had never before seen so many people so passionate about any other form of entertainment (e.g. dancing, television programmes, films, etc.), I am led to believe that sport tends to differ from the others in a manner quite profound.

Allow me to begin by relating a story, and telling of how it is that I came to arrive at this theory:

I am not one to squander much time at pubs; but, one evening, I'd decided to accompany a friend to a pub as a means to entertain him. We commenced our evening humbly by ordering several drinks, but it seemed that, for most of the night, we were standing aloof from the "pub community."

As luck would have it, my companion happened to be donning a shirt emblazoned with the logo of his favourite football team. This eventually caught the attention of a nearby habitué, who accosted my companion with civility. He enquired the reasons for my companion's affection for that team, and my friend obliged him by responding to all his questions. The questions of the habitué soon evolved into an hour-long discussion regarding the divers players and coaches who composed the team in question; the other teams within the league, the demographics of the region for which the team plays; former championship bouts, petty derbies, etc., etc.

After the two had exhausted all their knowledge of the sport, they departed from sport-related discourse and then began to traverse (rather subtly) into more personal conversation—discourse regarding their vocations, families, travels, etc., etc.

After my companion had conversed with this man for nearly two hours, I came to a most startling conclusion: "sport," I said, "is the common man's catalyst for conversation!"

—

A certain law of etiquette that most Americans learn when they are young and abide by until they are old is: "there are two things that you should never talk about: politics and religion." As both politics and religion are clearly topics that cannot be discussed with an absolute stranger, one must therefore find a more neutral topic for discussion—one that will not offend either of the two parties.

A conversation about the weather would be awkward (and would likely not last very long); a conversation about the locality of the pub, the economy, etc. would simply not be very engaging (and, moreover, the latter seems to tread rather too closely to politics itself). One could, in theory, discuss film or popular entertainment; but, such a discussion would not last very long either, as there aren't nearly as many complexities to a film as there are to several decades' worth of sporting events. Of course, one may enjoy the film, praise its brilliance (or, perhaps, even its flaws), but this will by no means serve as a compelling discussion with an absolute stranger. Indeed, it is the complexities of sport (e.g. the statistics, the trades, the teams, the players, the coaches, the injuries, the payrolls, etc.) that allow one's discussion thereof to serve as a fitting and virtually inexhaustible topic. (And, the fact that sporting events are typically broadcast in pubs, and places that promote social intercourse, seems to facilitate its utility as a "catalyst for conversation.")

When families, old friends, or even new acquaintances gather; sport is generally the topic of discussion. For it, like political discourse, is a topic about which one can be passionate. It successfully translates the passion that one would typically feel for religion and politics into a neutral and harmless domain—one which will not evoke ill-feelings.

Indeed, I have noticed that the most social of men are those who are well-versed in sport and its history. For, these men can relate with the common man, and elate him with their passionate discourse about the team for which he cheers.

Surely, there are many other things I can discuss... For example, the almost "religious fervour" that seems to fill the breast of those men that are interested in sport.

Now, naturally, there will be some apathetic proponents, and there will also be more fanatical ones (similar to the conditions within religion itself). However this, for the time, is not apposite to my discussion, and I shall therefore forgo any further mention of it..

Selected Ravings.

2010-03-29T21:40:00.001-07:00

LENGTHY

α. (1 March 2010) Have you ever gotten that feeling, as you wake up in the morning, that the apocalypse had occurred whilst you were sleeping? There's a singular fog around the neighbouring houses, the sun is shining dimly, and not a soul is stirring. Nothing can be heard but the drops of melting snow—no automobiles, sirens, etc... —Then! a wretched child leaps from the brush, "HAH!" And, you are then left only to say, "I suppose that I shall have to wish for the apocalypse tomorrow."

β. (4 March 2010) Some months ago, as I was pacing around an art gallery, I chanced to stumble into the late-19th century room. (This was after I'd spent the entire day at an 18th century exhibit.) It was striking how the garb, posture, and the air of those depicted in the portraits had decayed. The figures were slouched and dressed in common clothes. —The elegance of the 18th century had, by this time, already begun to melt. —My heart was overcome with sadness and despair. For, I realised, "These paintings are well over a century old! —Thus, we are to these slouching creatures what those of the 18th century were to them!"

γ. (13 February 2010) I once imputed selfishness to a man, and he responded by saying that he "is not selfish," as "all of his earnings are given to his wife." I then asked, "But, does not this woman provide you with happiness, sir? And without her, do you not feel incomplete?" I continued, "Therefore, giving unto this woman is not a completely selfless deed. For, when you give unto her, you give unto yourself. —When I see that you are providing some lonesome wretch with gracious gifts, then I will say, 'Surely!—Surely, this man is not selfish.'"

δ. (24 February 2010) Is Time the arbitor of artistic merit? Can it truly be said that "good art ages like wine, and bad art ages like milk"? ¶ Although it is true that timeless works will generally be ignored during barbarous times, they seem always to be appreciated by some elevated mind [within the barbarous epoch].

ε. (21 February 2010) Once one has gotten another to admit that he has no scruples about condoning imperialism, where does one go from there? Surely, even if one were to convince such a person that imperialism is indeed morally questionable; he'd say, "I am immoral," and then continue to condone it.

ζ. (15 February 2010) The Jew scorns the Rapture of the Christian, the Christian scorn Saracen's heaven, and those hopeful for Science laugh at all. But, he who is hopeful for Science believes that technology can rid him of pain—render him immortal. He will sacrifice himself for its progress, and become a true Agnus Scientiæ. ¶ But, why not also laugh at those who are hopeful for Science? In what way does their Singularity differ from the Rapture?—A post-human apothoesis. ¶ The medievals used their hands to pray, and the moderns use their hands to build. Though, the hope for a painless immortality is seemingly present in both. [Pardon me when I wax philosophical. I'm not so haughty as to think that these are not mere, dilettantish musings.]

η. (12 March 2010) Tho' my rambling words regarding Deformity may've made but little sense, I do believe that we're living in an age of unparalleleddeformity. The electronic apparatuses in the ears of sordid old men, the divers afflictions of flesh and mind, the omnipresence of electronic blips. But, as Beauty is doubtless in the eye of the beholder, I shan't venture to deny that this deformity is not beautiful. —Bask, if you choose, my friends.

θ. (1 February 2010) To my astonishment, 'La Belle et la Bête' was a fine film. The milieu—encompasing the phanstastic and th' eerie—did leave meenthralled. —I do confess that I did laugh a hearty laugh upon the initial approach of the poorly-accoutred Beast. Tho', my amusement soon fizzled out.

—

BRIEF

α. (06/03/10) Suddenly, a most singular fancy seems to have blinded all my faculties of reason!—The fancy? A trans-atlantic voyage in a blue Montgolfier.

β. (01/03/10) When Twitter becomes outmoded, obsolete, passes on; it will be but a grafitied wall on some decrepit structure in the Internet's old city.

γ. (05/03/10) 'Tis the struggles of man that render man "man."

δ. (23/02/10) I don't quite understand it, but it seems that Twitter is teeming with Deleuzians. The rest of them are simply unwitting Aristippeans.

ε. (25/02/10) The archaicists scorn the innovators, and the innovators scorn archaicists. But, Augustus scorned them both. —What a noble fellow he was!

ζ. (27/02/10) On occasion, we need to dress Darwin up in motley and swinge him in the buttocks with a stick. It prevents us from apotheosizing him.

η. (02/03/10) Goethe once exhorted artists to "Create!—Do not talk!" There's no medium that spits in the face of that saying more viciously than Twitter.

θ. (28/03/10) Treat someone like a king and you will be treated like a servant in return.

ι. (10/12/09) Hey-day! When shall ye gentlemen cease thy shilly-shallying on the Twitter machine?

κ. (27/03/10) In America, the poet is the pop singer, the aristocrat is the celebrity, and the philosopher is the talk show host. What have I forgotten?

λ. (08/03/10) Solitude only remains solitude until one desires another. —It then becomes loneliness.

μ. (29/11/09) As dull as I may sometimes seem, I still cannot deny that I don't smile as I behold the sight of urine; hear a fart, an eructation or a sneeze.

ν. (20/11/09) I feel for my country as I do for my mother. Even though I profess distaste for the woman; when others do so, I feel I must defend her.

ξ. (02/02/10) Imbibing the contents of a four-week-old bottle of Amontillado may have been a poor choice.

ο. (28/01/10) Theodore Kaczynski was the closest that the late-20th century could have come to a Henry David Thoureau.

π. (24/01/10) Pardon my vulgarity, but how do some men squander their entire existence in pursuit of a moist, fleshy hole?

ρ. (08/30/09) Is it not odd how most women have a general aversion to the 'generalisation'?

σ. (25/05/09) The old world is charming, but a lack of proper air-conditioning is oppressive. I must relocate to colder climes.

τ. (23/01/10) Ah, the Internet! The only place where madmen, megalomaniacs, casuists, conspiracy theorists and lechers may safely convene.

υ. (10/12/09) When men had perceived strange phenomena in one age, they said, "'tis the doing of the gods"; but, when it was perceived in another, they said "the doing of the aliens." The logic is the same, but the era (and the entity) is different.

φ. (16/02/10) I believe that the whole of the Twitter community should convene for Lent, and collectively agree to eschew their faltering Wit.

χ. (09/03/10) 'Tis a law never to tweet ere thy coffee has been consumed. ¶ 'Tis a law, moreover, never to drink thy coffee ere thou hast milk'd thy marmot, and hath distributed his milk unto thy kinsmen.

ψ. (28/04/09) [Second post]. At this point in the "swine influenza outbreak," we are left with a spectrum. One side being 1976, and the other, 1918.

ω. (29/03/10) The Golden Age of one society is the Dark Age of another.

The Correspondence of the Pickled Aubergine.

2010-03-18T06:51:00.001-07:00

—

11 March 2010 15:55:09

Mr Frumpus,

I chanced to stumble upon your advertisement for "1 Pickled Aubergine" this afternoon, and am e-mailing you as a means to express my interest in that item. I am willing to drive several hours north to procure the item, or perhaps I can simply remit the funds to you via post.

Regards,

Qoon.

PS: Please reply to this e-mail as soon as you are able. My foundation is patiently awaiting your response.

11 March 2010 16:32:43

Qoon,

I've received your e-mail dated 11 March and am willing to comply with either of the two options. Though, I would prefer that the item be sent via post, as I've truly been quite occupied as of late, and would find but little time to arrange for a meeting.

Cordially,

Mr Frumpus

11 March 2010 16:32:44

Mr Frumpus,

We were eagerly awaiting your response. Every member of our team has bitten his nails down to the cuticle, and some have even begun to discuss the prospect of hiring several interns (as this will grant us 40-50 nails that will be suitable for biting). But, as you've responded, we can safely forgo that measure.

I must confess that I (as well as the members of my team) are grieved that you have not granted us an address to which we can remit the funds.

What is the total for this item? Where should we send the funds? Will you be providing us with tracking information? Will you be wise enough to seal the recepticle wherein the aubergine has been pickled? Will this item be insured?

These and suchlike questions have been afflicting us for the past hour.

Please, we beg that you respond in a timely manner.

Eagerly awaiting your response,

Qoon & The Aubergine Foundation

11 March 2010 17:04:43

Qoon,

I apologise if I've caused you or your team any distress, but you must consider that I am, indeed, quite busy. This weekend alone I have pickled an aubergine, a nose, a cucumber, a parliamentarian's stockings, a gag, a noose, a teacup, a candlewick, a shoe, a snorkel, a toad and a cinnamon bun.

In response to your query, the total for this item will be $0.14 (plus a shipping cost of $153.42). Thus making the grand total $153.57. You can send the funds to dinkfrumpus@frump.edu.

Warmest regards,

Dink Frumpus

11 March 2010 17:04:44

Dink,

Please consider that our team has the utmost respect for your unparalleled, pickling talent. Nonetheless, we must beg that, in the future, you respond to our messages in a more timely manner. Several of our team members have already bitten their nails down to the wrist — voraciously for hours on end.

Supposedly, the paramedics will be arriving any moment now to staunch the wounds (but, we fear the worst). Meantime, we've constructed several makeshift tourniquets.

By the bye, our accountant seems to have noticed a grave error in your calculations. You have claimed that the total is $153.57, but, in truth, it should be $153.56.

Respond promptly to confirm our calculations. Once you do, we will remit the funds forthwith.

- Qoon

11 March 2010 18:32:37

Qoon,

I am sorry to hear about the tragedy that has recently transpired at the Aubergine Foundation. Have the paramedics arrived?

Your accountant has indeed calculated the funds aright. The total for this item will be $153.56.

I apologise for any inconvenience.

Cordially,

Dink

PS: I apologise for any inconvenience.

11 March 2010 18:32:38

Dink,

We appreciate your concern. However, we regret to say that our secretary, custodian, and even our chief developer, have all been pronounced dead. Our accountant has been transported to hospital, and is said to be in critical condition. This now leaves sixty-seven of us remaining — all of whom are patiently awaiting your response.

We have transferred the funds ($153.56) to your account, and hope that you will apprise us the moment that you receive them — telling us when, and by which method, the item will be shipped.

Your obedient servant,

Qoon & The Aubergine Foundation

11 March 2010 20:04:21

Qoon & The Aubergine Foundation,

My God. I am a truly at a loss as to what I should say! I send my condolences to both you and your team. I shall be sending a didactic pamphlet on pickling as a means to express my regret.

I've received your payment in the amount of $153.56, and shall be sending the pickled aubergine to the address that you have provided me with.

Yours truly, and with sorrow,

Dink Frumpus

11 March 2010 20:04:23

Sir,

Pardon my late response, but there's been a mutiny here at the Foundation! Desks have been overturned, office supplies are being used as armaments, and one of the confederates has punctured our chief technician's arm with an S.T. Dupont fountain pen. A small fire has broken out near the water foundation (not to mention, several of the desks have been annexed by the revolutionary forces — eeeeemdsinds3762837849348 sdc*#&#*#*$(%*&@U@ — Ho! Ho! We suffered another casualty.

Please send us the tracking information forthwith.

Your, etc., etc.

Qoon & The Loyalists

12 March 2010 09:23:04

Qoon,

Should I contact the authorities? It seems that revolution is afoot at the Aubergine Foundation...

The item has been shipped today, on the morning of 12 March. Your tracking number is as follows: 7374 - 3932 - 0000 - 2838 - 1234.

With Fear & Apprehension,

Mr Dink Frumpus

12 March 2010 09:23:04

I'm afraid I wasn't able to deliver your message to the following address. This is a permament error.

- MAILER DAEMON

13 March 2010 03:35:09

Sir,

The Loyalists and I have ousted the confederates, and have taken full control of the premises. Sadly, only twenty of us now remain (the rest have either been gaoled or slaughtered in the fray).

As most of our computers were destroyed during the Battle of the Water Fountain, we've been unable to receive your most recent e-mails. If it's possible, please forward these messages to us as soon as you find that you are able.

- Qoon & The Second Aubergine Foundation

13 March 2010 08:21:34

Qoon,

I am genuinely please to learn that office has been regained by the Loyalists. For, I can assure you, both my honour and loyalty lies in the hands of the aforesaid faction — not with those contemptible rebels.

My e-mail from 12 March has been appended to this e-mail. You will be able to read it as an attachment.

- Dink Frumpus

16 March 2010 09:31:04

Mr Frumpus,

Several days have passed since first the transaction was made. We have been tracking the item diligently, and have even sent several members of our team to the cities where the parcel is suspect to be. We are hoping that their presence will quell any insurrection in those lands, and thereby ensure the safety of the pickled aubergine.

Though, even in spite of our diligence, it appears the item has not yet left the checkpoint at Tallahassee. Supposedly, it arrived there on 13 March.

We have contacted the postal service, but they seem to be quite unsympathetic. We beg that you intervene and assist us in the matter (lest another revolution should transpire).

- Qoon

16 March 2010 10:04:12

Mr Qoon,

I've just finished speaking with the Tallahassee postal service, and demanded that they rummage through their packages in search of the aubergine. They were quite reluctant at first, but once I did apprise them that the safety of this package was, indeed, a matter of LIFE & DEATH — relating the tale of how several had already died to ensure its safety — the employees then began to listen.

After hours and hours of searching, the postmen were unable to track anything even like unto our package. Their suspicion is that it may've been shipped without having been scanned — thus resulting in the true whereabouts of the package being obscured.

As I, much like yourself, am quite concerned with the safety of this package, I shall be probing into this case with reinforced diligence.

Your obedient servant,

Dink Frumpus,

16 March 2010 10:04:13

Mr Frumpus,

We're indebted to you for both your diligence and service. Please remain in close contact with us, and be sure to apprise us of every particular that unfolds.

Once again, we are beginning to fear the worst. As word of this débâcle begins to spread throughout the office, another faction within the Loyalists will most assuredly rebel.

Be diligent.

Yours Truly,

Qoon & The Second Aubergine Foundation

18 March 2010 10:04:14

Mr Frumpus,

Several days have passed since last we've received word from your regarding the pickled aubergine. As I had predicted, the Foundation has separated into three separate factions. One faction (the Loyalists) seem to hold the belief that the aubergine will be arriving safely at our office in one week's time; whilst the moderate rebels believe that it will be arriving in over three weeks time with some dints and superficial damage. But, the radicals believe that it will not be arriving at all.

As I believe that your response will quell the ensuing riot, I must pray that you respond in a timely manner. —Please, sir. We entreat you to be diligent.

Yours,

Qoon & The Loyalists (The Third Aubergine Foundation)

18 March 2010 11:43:02

Qoon,

I do not quite know how to explain this to you, Qoon, but it has recently been reported by the Tallahassee press that a pickled aubergine seen partaking in a shoot-out at a local pub. It was reported, moreover, that the selfsame aubergine has been deeply involved in pimping.

I shall be travelling to Tallahassee tomorrow to probe even further into the aubergine (for, I believe that the culprit is indeed our aubergine).

Pray that I arrive home safely.

- The Loyal Dink Frumpus

18 March 2010 11:43:03

Mr Frumpus,

We shall be patiently awaiting your news from Tallahassee.

Nearly a third of the Loyalists have either absconded, or have perished in the fray. We fear that the radicals will soon defrock the Loyalists and take full control of the Foundation. If you do not respond in three days' time, the Aubergine Foundation may risk collapse.

Praying for your safety,

Qoon & The Ailing Loyalists

20 March 2010 00:00:56

Qoon,

I am currently writing to you from the city of Tallahassee.

It seems that the aubergine has absconded from this city, and is headed north to your office in Poughkeepsie. This information was granted me by one of the whores whom the aubergine had prostituted to cucumbers and — it grieves me to say this, but... — grapefruits as well.

Unfortunately, I must abandon this case and return to my shop in Richmond, Virginia. I will be providing both you and your Foundation with a 50% refund for the pickled aubergine ($0.07).

With regret,

Dink Frumpus

21 March 2010 12:30:33

Dink,

Your news has brought about a full revolution in favour of the Radicals. The Aubergine Foundation has now degenerated into the "Aubergine Liberation Front." Their objective is to uncap every pickled aubergine the world over, and thereby pour unbridlded chaos into the world.

I am at a loss for words. I can only hope that — Wait. One moment now... It seems that there is a most curious clanking in the hallway of our office! It seems to be approaching!

BY GOD! The refulgent light that shimmers from the aubergine's jar is — it is GLORIOUS! I am weeping, my dear Frumpus! Ha, ha! This will ensure an overthrow in favour of the Loyalists!

But, alas! He has clearly been corrupted by the grapefruits! The cap of his jar is adorned by tattoos, and the glass has been punctured by a piercing! —He appears to be leaking all over the office grounds!

Ha, ha! I cannot convey—but, please! I shall contact you soon!

- Qoon & The Fourth Aubergine Foundation!

21 March 2010 13:38:29

Qoon,

Sir! Expatiate on the particulars of the aubgerine's safety! Is he well? Have you subdued him? Will you be refunding me my $0.07? Are you satisfied with the aubergine's condition? Did you receive my pamphlet, etc.?

Please respond to me as soon as you are able.

- D. Frumpus

21 March 2010 14:01:32

FRUMPUS,

THIS IS YOUR BELOVED AUBGERINE SPEAKING. I HAVE DEFECTED TO THE RADICAL FACTION.

WHY DID YOU FORSAKE ME? HOW COULD YOU HAVE BEEN SO BASE? WHY DID YOU SELL ME TO THOSE CONTEMPTIBLE DOGS WHOSE ONLY DESIRE WAS TO DISPLAY BEFORE NOSE-PICKING CHILDREN AND MALODOROUS CRONES? HAVE YOU NO CONCERN FOR MY SAFETY — MY WELL-BEING?

I DID NOT WANT TO DO WHAT I HAVE DONE, BUT, ONCE I WAS ABANDONED, I HAD NO CHOICE. HAD I NOT ENGAGED IN THOSE FOUL DEBAUCHERIES — IN THOSE VILLAINOUS CRIMES — I NEVER WOULD HAVE BEEN ABLE TO PROSPER.

HENCEFORTH, I RENOUNCE ALL CLAIMS TO OWNERSHIP BY YOU. I AM NOW ONE AMONGST THE AUBGERINE LIBERATION FRONT. — I AM THEIR LEADER.

FRUMPUS, THESE ARE YOUR JUST DESERTS, AND SOON WE SHALL BE COMING TO SEIZE YOU.

- THE PICKLED AUBERGINE

PS : I'M NOT, NOR WAS I EVER, A PICKLED AUBERGINE. I AM MERELY A SOFT BOILED EGG WITH A LEAF JABBED IN MY SIDE.

25 March 2010

This correspondence ends with a final message from the aubergine (or, the pickled egg with a leaf thrust in its side). Qoon, the leader of the Fourth Aubergine Foundation, was found half-dead in a strappado. Mr Frumpus has not been heard of since.

The Article That Was Forced.

2010-03-07T09:56:00.000-08:00

Dear Friends,

Would that I could see this page adapted for the screen! I'd not allow it to be embellished by neither fife nor stomper—by neither strings nor warbling lark!

I'd allow it only to be embellished by an arrangement of grunts (grunts with vibrato, grunts in falsetto, and grunts that are accompanied by grunts).

Yes! I'd hire the greatest symphony to perform Le Grongement in D for Paunch and Gullet!

And, the reason?—Why! This is the "Article that was Forced." —Now, need I even ask if a "grunt" is not befitting?

O'er the course our belovèd human history; all books, tractates, rants and even lies have been written with some inspiration—with some purpose—with some meaning, goal, or aim. But this—unlike the Summa Theologica—unlike the Arcana Cœlestia, or the Periphyseon—is indeed almost wholly without meaning. It has been "forced for the sake of being forced." —Oui, "forcé pour être forcé."

Quite often, when I feel my heart is throbbing with ambition—and my hands can hardly be contained—, I sit before the breadth of my three-leggèd desk and then prepare to write the very grandest of words. But, alas!—hélas!—I come only to discover that I am simply not able to glean a thought from out the mind! I attempt to force some words onto the page (typically concerning my ewe, Cleopatra), but the result... It is tiresome and dull.

Now, lest I should digress any further, dear friends, please allow me to relate (1) how this article has been conceived and (2) how it is I came to settle 'pon this topic.

—

On the third day of June, twenty-hundred and ten, as Cleopatra (my ewe) and I were bathing in my tub; I did chance to drop the soap into the darkness of the drain!

As I journeyed into the kitchen (vested only in the lather)—searching for a knife with which to pry damnèd soap—I was thinking, "What shall I write of this evening?" (Cleopatra had by this time become a tiresome subject.)

Then! The notion—it struck me flat upon my gluteus! "Hah! Much like the soap, which I'm attempting here to pry—my very thoughts themselves, I must endeavour now to force!"

I then hastened to the tub, wherein Cleopatra lay, and lifted her right from out the lather! —I thrust my ewe smack upon the surface of my lap, and then began to write "The Article that was Forced!"

But, insofar as my article is forced, and the article itself tells of how it is I forced it; I fear that now—there is but nothing left to say.

Signed,

Cleopatra & Guarinus

Republican and Democratic Differences: A Conflict of Priority.

2010-02-24T18:07:00.000-08:00

This particular post will be a bit more sober in tone. It will be regarding the most perceptible differences between the Republican and Democrat in the United States of America—something which, I believe, is ultimately a question of priorities.

—

1.The REPUBLICAN. In a word, the chief priority of the Republican is to "uphold their glorious empire." —That is to say, the prosperity of their nation is, without doubt, the Republican's foremost concern. They wish to see the United States remain the sole and inimitable global power—a power whose overwhelming economic and militaristic hegemony will perpetuate deep into the rifts of eternity.

Now, though it will surely be hackneyed to state this: the Republican is, of course, the very staunchest of capitalists. —By no means is he sympathetic to socialism, communism, or anything that even seems to smack of it.

If one should chance to fail in his society, the failures of that person will be principally attributable to his lack of ambition, education, drive, intelligence, hardheadedness, persistence, etc.; but never—by no means—will it be attributable to the manner in which the Republican's society functions. After all, the United States is the dominant global power—in possession of both economic and militaristic hegemony—, and it would therefore be well nigh absurd to even suggest that their society "does not function" (or so the Republican would argue).

"Est unusquisque faber ipsae suae fortunae."

(Each man is the maker of his own fortune.)

In brief, the Republican has no interest in seeing the government aid that unfortunate group of wretches who had simply "failed to prosper." For, as they contribute neither to the prosperity, nor to the furtherance, of their empire; such sympathies would simply be unwarranted.

Though, in spite of what I've said concerning this "hardheaded" people, the Republican does not necessarily demand that the rest of the world wallow, for all eternity, in squalor. Rather, this problem is not his chief priority, and he would suggest that it should only be addressed if there be an exceptional surplus of wealth within his country (and, even in this case, the action would be questionable).

Lastly, the Republican believes that traditional values will surely uphold the moral probity of their people (and ultimately, uphold their very empire in turn). This is precisely why it is they are often seen opposing to gay rights, abortion, prostitution, irreligion, or anything that will chance to "demoralise" their people. For, they believe that when the values of their people decay, the strength of their nation will follow.

1. The DEMOCRAT. The chief priority of the democrat is principally to further their "constructed morality." That is to say, they wish to convert every American to their markedly "humanistic" ideology, which promotes international aid, aid for the impoverished in their country, rights for those of every sexuality, gender, race and creed; multiculturalism, etc.

Now, the Democrat, contrary to the Republican, does not necessarily strive for the furtherance of his empire, but rather contents himself with the illusion that "the empire will persist for all eternity" (even in spite of his efforts to liberalise the country socially).

When approached with the question of "how to uphold the empire" (naturally, in a more politically correct manner), the Democrat will typically rebut by thrusting an ethical question smack into the face of his respondent. And, it is here that the Conflict of Priority arises: —there is one who wishes to uphold the empire, and another who wishes to further his moral ideals. Naturally, one cannot (1) prolong the life of the empire and (2) fulfill the humanist objective of the Democrat. It is plain that conflicts will arise.

But, to expand slightly further on the Democrat's behaviour: he is generally indifferent towards religion, as the tenets of most Abrahamic religions are simply not in accord with his constructed moral system. He will argue that it promotes slavery, the degradation of women, or anything that he considers to be morally questionable (through the lens of his constructed moral system). The Republican, on the contrary, is typically favourable towards religion, as it condemns sexual liberality, theft, or anything that will indeed, not only uphold social order, but ultimately, uphold the very empire itself.

When touching upon the question of "healthcare reform," the Democrat will typically address it by relating some heart-warming story about an infant named Sammy (or perhaps Jorge), who was shafted by the healthcare system after his harelip had been painlessly sutured. The Republican, on the other hand, seems to realise that a privatised healthcare system will, not only be conducive to, but even bolster a significant sector of the economy. Once again, the Republican is concerned with the furtherance of his empire, whilst the Democrat is concerned with furtherance of his constructed moral system.

"What should be done about the environment?" This is another, markedly 21st-century question wherein the Conflict of Priority seems also to arise. The Democrat (as it's commonly known) hopes to "amend the perilous environment," whilst the Republican, it seems, is far less sympathetic. For, the Republican is wary—believing that reforms may chance to tear a rift in his economy, and thereby threaten the very condition of his empire.

The same Conflict of Priority seems to arise in many another instance: immigration, foreign affairs, etc. But, I shall not squander much time illustrating their particulars.

—

In brief, it would appear that the Republican's concerns are riveted exclusively on "self-preservation." And, if necessary, his government will intervene with war, "diplomacy" (in other words, threats), etc.

The Democrat, on the contrary, seems to be principally concerned with the furtherance of his constructed moral system. And, if necessary, he will address any ethical breach by demanding that his government intervene to amend it.

—

"Est unusquisque faber ipsae suae fortunae."

(Each man is the maker of his own fortune.)

The same Conflict of Priority seems to arise in many another instance: immigration, foreign affairs, etc. But, I shall not squander much time illustrating their particulars.

—

Nine Rules for Arriving at Literary Apotheosis.

2010-02-22T10:19:00.001-08:00

In view of the immense amount of "rules" that I have stumbled upon regarding Literary Apotheosis—having been given to a contemptible lot of scribblers by some Lofty Literary-Demigod or another—, I feel that it is now incumbent upon me to formulate my very own list.

Now, if you be prudent (as I suspect you are) you will follow the forthcoming rules with the utmost diligence—rules which (I am certain) will guide you to the Literary Firmament and place you beside the likes of Lord Monboddo, who will speaking of the humans' natural tendency to grow tails.

1. Perpetual fasting. If one is to fast for an hour, he will find that he is capable of composing a delightful poem in free verse. If one is to fast for two, a rhyming couplet in acatalectic dimeter will be the result. Fasting for a week will result in the most sublime Petrarchan canto ever to be conceived by the mind of modern man.

2. Abstinence (insofar as the ever-coveted act of Coitus is concerned). One will find that to be abstinent, and never to whet one's sexual appetite (as Diogenes once demanded), will result in a work that would even make the Swan of Mantua's cheek turn a sort of rosy hue. In brief, thou should'st not follow the maxim: "Keep thy hands to thyself." Rather, one must always keep one's arms extended at full length (even in sleep).

3. Tobacco. Every sublime author must have an abundance of Tobacco at his disposal. He must clothe himself in tobacco, and be sure to have his pen laced in a dry, tobacco leaf.

4. Never to begin ab ovo. As Homer exercised, and the great Seneca confirmed, one must never—under no circumstances—begin their work "from the egg." In brief, one must begin where the chicken is about to be defeathered at the local abattoir.

5. Filthiness. Under no circumstances should one shower, bathe, or even brush one's teeth. For, it is commonly known that both bacteria and natural filth tend to aid us in the use of our cognitive faculties. They sit beside us and whisper secrets into our ear (such as the rules for sublime writing)

6. Consult the bacteria. The Bacteria will surely apprise you of the 6th Law for Arriving at Literary Apotheosis.

7. Socklessness. A writer of the finest caliber must always be Sockless when writing. Allow me to enquire, "Did great Homer own socks?" No. I rest my case.

8. Forbiddance of Bodily Excretions. One must never excrete anything whatsoever (spit, vomit, feces or urine) from any of the orifices on one's body. For, with thine excretions go thy creativity.

9. Consult the Nine Rules for Arriving at Literary Apotheosis. Upon waking, thou shoulds't consult the Nine Rules for Arriving at Literary Apotheosis. Engrave these laws into thy walls, write them on thy palms, and tattoo them on thy mistress' back. For, without these rules, thou may'st never chance to arrive at the peak of OLYMPUS—whereupon lies, LITERARY APOTHEOSIS.

Inspired by the fine work at The Guardian.

The VAUDISTOCRACY.

2010-02-09T09:54:00.000-08:00

The VAUDISTOCRACY

or, The Colloquy of Phalantheus & Qoon

The VAUDISTOCRACY is a dialogue which attempts to explore the evolution of the all-enduring actor—beginning with his slave-like status in antiquity, and ending with his god-like standing in the modern day world. It also attempts to explore the devolution of the aristocrat, which is claimed to have occurred alongside the evolution of the actor.

This dialogue begins with a fatuous exchange between the characters, Phalantheus and Qoon, and then advances into a discussion of both the actor and aristocrat's role in the societies of the ancient world. The following four parts then journey through the ages by exploring the actor's role in Byzantium, Restoration England, etc.; until it arrives at the globalised democracies of the 21st century.

Throughout the dialogue, the chief-speaker, Phalantheus, attempts to convince his friend, Qoon, that the death of the aristocrat, and the "apotheosis" of the actor, have resulted in the birth of a most singular entity—an entity which he chooses to deem, the "vaudistocrat."

° Read the VAUDISTOCRACY (HTML).

—

QOON : All right, Phalantheus. I've returned. —Now,

continue your desultory tirade, and I will continue to listen.

PHALANTHEUS : Well, considering that we've touched,

to some degree, upon the most important instances within

Classical Antiquity, I believe that I should now attempt to

define the phrase "vaudistocracy" quite explicitly.

QOON : Very well. And perhaps this discourse will, in

turn, grow all the more tolerable, Phalantheus.

PHALANTHEUS : Oh, most assuredly, Qoon. But, first it

is entirely necessary that we discourse on the habits of our

decadent age—that is to say, the Iron Age or, more

appropriately, the "Age of Modernity."

PHALANTHEUS : First, it should be noted that, quite

unlike the stage of yore, the contemporary media of

television, the Internet and flm, have allowed the face of

an actor (or other personage of the screen) to spread, like a

deadly plague, within a very brief matter of days—if not

hours. Second, the actors of the screen (once again, quite

unlike the olden actors) are not at the beck and call of an

omnipotent sovereign, and are thereby self-representing

entities. Third, with the peerage of old having been

hopelessly lain to waste, the hoi polloi now appear to be

pitifully misguided—not knowing whither to allot their

adulation—, and have therefore sought the nexus of the

said adulation in the actors of the all-glorious screen.

PHALANTHEUS : Thus, it is no longer the aristocrats who

are the "exemplars of high fashion"; no longer is their

behaviour perceived as a general precedent for the hoi

polloi; and no longer is their status singly equated with the

very pitch of social prosperity. But, rather, these singular

qualities have been curiously bequeathed unto the

aristocratic actor (yea, that once-reviled slave of yore).

And, consequently, no longer is the actor a mere "minister

of mirth and pleasure," nor, quite fortunately (for his sake),

a slave. But, rather, they have become the principal movers of

the commons' politic, behaviour, taste, and, indeed, even

sometimes, religious convictions.

QOON : Yes, Phalantheus. And, if I may mention a

certain matter in digression: is it not quite interesting how

it often seems to be the least talented of the lot who—

seemingly borne on the wings of chance—happen to

become the upstarts in our society? Indeed, it appears that

they are oftentimes lionised for very little more than a

trivial attribute (e.g., charm, a soothing voice, a pleasing

face, or an agreeable shape), and are thereby set high above

the commons—set high aloft amid the clouds of "social

prosperity."

PHALANTHEUS : Indeed. And it is this gilded pedestal

—the pedestal upon which these persons are placed—that

I prefer to deem, the "court of the vaudistocracy."

PHALANTHEUS : And, as one may readily observe, these

men and women of inordinate affuence tend to wield a

great deal of, not only cultural, but, indeed, even political

clout—far outshining that of any philosopher, or, indeed,

many a lesser politician.

QOON : Well, if it is any consolation, Phalantheus; I, for

one, do not hearken unto their words. For I rather prefer to

hearken unto the words of the philosopher, or attempt

(insofar as I am able) to sieve some grain of truth from out

the politician's bunkum.

PHALANTHEUS : Indeed, Qoon. But, now I should ask:

do you consider yourself to be of the hoi polloi? Or do you

rather consider yourself a person of slightly more

'commendable' faculties?

QOON : Neither, in truth, Phalantheus. For my faculties

are by no means commendable, nor do I consider myself

of the hoi polloi.

PHALANTHEUS : Well, I believe that your faculties are

so commendable, Qoon, that you have even arrived at

some comparative modesty. But, the point is: they exclusively

direct the hoi polloi, and not the man of reason. For the man

of commendable faculties is not nearly as malleable as the

commoner, and is therefore not nearly as susceptible to the

horrifying infuence of the vaudistocracy. Do you believe

that the aristocrats of old had swayed the thoughts and

opinions of many an "elevated" man? No, of course not,

Qoon. —And, indeed, the very same applies for today.

PHALANTHEUS : Yes, Qoon, it oftentimes occurs.

However, when one considers that many an oligarch is

oftentimes the descendent of some affuent businessman

(or, if not, is endorsed by suchlike personages), one realises

that they too are immensely opulent in their very own right—

perhaps equally as opulent, or in some cases wealthier than,

the actor. But, all of this is commonplace.

QOON : Of course, Phalantheus—of course. I certainly

concede to the claim. For, I too believe that it tends to vary.

However, I thought it an interesting point nonetheless.

PHALANTHEUS : Indeed. —In point of fact, if I may

expand upon that head rather slightly: there is a custom of

the vaudistocracy, which we must, of necessity, not neglect.

It is the custom whereby the more opulent vaudistocrat will

bestow some tithe or other on the politician of their

choosing—as a means of aiding their campaign, and

thereby facilitating their advancement in the state. And, of

course, more commonly, the vaudistocrat will provide a

prospective politician with an even more precious

commodity—to wit, their desirous clout.

QOON : I am rather confused by the structure of your

phrase, Phalantheus. However, I believe that you were

essaying to illustrate the instance whereby an entertainer

will "endorse" a politician, as a means of swaying the

commons' opinion.

PHALANTHEUS : Precisely, Qoon. —If I daresay, the

method is quite effective.

PHALANTHEUS : And, if one were to contest this claim, I

believe that one's respondent could readily supply a most

copious assemblage of empirical data—data in support of

the contrary. For it is known that the media doesn't scruple

to broadcast (or to publish) the endorsements of the

vaudistocrats to the public—laying their opinions out in

troughs, as if it were fodder for the commons'

consumption.

PHALANTHEUS : In conclusion, I believe it to be the

cultural and political clout, the inordinate opulence, and

the vaudistocrat's ability to rise to a position in the state

more readily than the philosopher, or the commoner; that

renders these so-called "actors" genuine aristocrats. For

they have not only usurped the aristocratic métier, but,

indeed, even the aristocrat wealth.

QOON : When you say that they have the "ability to rise

to a position in the state more readily than the philosopher

or the commoner," are you intimating that countless actors

have become presidents, governors, and men of state in

some of the most powerful nations on the globe?

PHALANTHEUS : Yes, Qoon, indeed. —Or, rather, if

one were to explain this matter to a Roman, one may

choose to relate it thus: "Behold, Dread Emperor! I

prognosticate that the players will someday become

emperors! Hear me, sir! Not only in thy client states and

provinces, but, indeed, even in the very heart of Rome!"

QOON : The Romans would laugh us to scorn!

Presidential Expressions.

2010-01-26T10:12:00.000-08:00

It has come to my attention that every president, from 1789 to 1974, has either been photographed, or painted, with an expression of staid sobreity – or, to speak more plainly, without smiling. However, shortly after the resignation of President Richard Nixon, it seems that many a man of state began to shake off that age-old sobriety by smiling in their photographs.

Now, though I cannot definitively trace the origin of the "presidential smile," it seems to have begun most perceptibly with President Gerald Ford in 1974.

–

If one were to observe every presidential portrait from George Washington to Barack Obama, one would notice an interesting spectrum of expressions ranging from an outright frown to an ear-to-ear smile. But, of course, there were some presidents, such as Rutherford Hayes, who were far too bearded for any reasonable analysis.

Now, though one may find this to be a trivial matter – analysing the expressions of bygone presidents –, it is indeed no trivial matter, my friends. And, the reasons for this, I shall henceforward relate.

Many contemporary classicists do not scruple to observe, or even conjecture the reasons for, the changing of expressions on the statues of many a Roman emperor. In fact, I have often heard it claimed that the expressions on the statues of statesmen from the Augustinian age differ comparatively from those of Christian-era Rome. Indeed, the Christian-era statues, according to academics, seem to boast humbler, more contemplative expressions; whilst the statues of pagan emperors from an earlier, omnipotent empire, seem to boast nothing but expressions of pride – of almost god-like glory.

But, how can one explain the shift in expression on the faces in American presidential portraits? Does this smiling evince a more decadent and care-free epoch, or rather an epoch where illusions of happiness were praised? Well, I can only infer the many reasons for the shift, but God only knows how correct my inferences will be.

I believe that it may also be argued that to be painted was a long, uncomfortable process, wherein a president would have to remain static for innumerable sessions – each session spanning hours at a time. It may be argued, moreover, that the daguerreotype was also a long, uncomfortable process, wherein the photographee was required to remain static for a lengthy period as well.

However, it surely cannot be denied that modern technology has seemingly liberated the photographee from any discomfort by capturing the image in a instant. And therefore, perhaps this alone has allowed the photographer to catch the president in a moment of transitory joviality.

Now, whether my reader select the technological, or the ideological, reason behind the shift in presidential expressions, your humble author will confess that he is rather leaning towards the ideological explanation. Perhaps it is because it sounds more poetic, or perhaps it is simply because it seems more convincing.

Three Modest Poems from MMVI.

2010-01-21T17:54:00.000-08:00

TO MME L——

Desperate am I to pen

Three short—three simple words—;

To utter one sweet, eternal song

That, forever,—in the depths—

Within the coldness of my heart—

Shall, with ease, remind me

Both of your charms

And you—

Of your beauty,

Your strangeness,

Your innocence—the horror—

And the great—the many—

Words that paint one sacred—

One everlasting,

One undying

One changeless,

One eternal—picture—

Eternal picture, love, of you.

But, with fear, I have thus spoken

Oh! These crude, unhallowed words

As the darkness, and the music—

Your breath,—

The words unspoken

And all the simple things that I

Remember now and rue—

Dance softly in my mind

With this endless, dying strain,

Now curdling the blood that trickles

Softly through each vain.

Of your lips, I'm always dreaming,

As you're sleeping in my arms,—

In wonderment, in passion—

Just awaiting your sweet charms

To fill me with their splendor

'Midst the violet of the morn—

And speak unto me softly

To confess that 'Love is born.'

THE CAPTIVE'S DECAY

No longer do I record the dismal days,

The dull months, nor the lasting years.

For I am painfully aware that I age,

That I suffer, and I am immured.

Wheresoever 'tis that Time may thrust me;

At which hour it rives my hopes,

How long it sustains my breath —

The novelties of its terror,

The gravity of its cruelty —

All remain but matters of indifference.

Were I conscious of time —

Of the vernal bliss, the autumnal woe,

Or the wintry drear —

Would this pain be mitigated now?

This life amended; youth returned?

Suffice it to say that a lustrum

To me is as a mote to the midnight air.

And though Time has not yet benumbed

My soul, (as these violent pangs may prove)

It has instructed me that to suffer is

As common as the lovelorn sigh;

As natural as the blinking of an eye—

As the thought of one's youth,

'Mid the vasty day, cast upon the mind,

In a dull, nostalgic ray.

UNTITLED IX

Alas! There 're better ways for men

To fight the foul oppression—

To fight the dying will

That lingered softly with our dead.

I passed the bygone thrill

(Wretched thrill that birthed depression!)

Which seeped into my mind

Like blackest thoughts it seep'd,

until—

Until my pen had written—

Until my song was sung—

Until my dreams were dreamt—

Until th' drunkards sipp'd their rum.

"Rum, rum—rum"

The drunkards! Yes! They sung!—

They hum, "Hum, hum—hum..."

Their bawdy songs they hum

"Rum! Rum! Rum! Rum!

The mummy in our tum'!

The suckl'ng bitch,

The damnèd witch—

The rum

Rum—rum!"

They sing lest life succumb,

And drink to—life—benumb.

But, Death will crawl into their beds—

Despair into their drunken heads

And life, it will succumb.

Their pleasures shall be numb.

A TIRADE AGAINST THE HIPSTER

2009-12-10T12:22:00.000-08:00

[Reposted from June 2008]

Ladies & Gentlemen,

The most abominable creature, ever to have been excreted from out the rectum of Western society, has finally taken full shape. And it is called the "hipster."

I should begin by confessing that I have always been quite thankful for not having been thrust into existence during the mid-1970s—due almost exclusively to the prominence of hippiedom during that era, and my grave detestation for that terrible "movement." I do not know whether it was the sexual liberality of that brood, the wretched art and music that they produced, or simply the intonation of the word "hippie," that I detested most—but, to be brief, it has always been a most abhorrent entity to me.

And, now, alas! dear friends, after a thirty year moratorium, a mutated form of the hippie has suddenly crawled from out the bowels of this decadent society in an attempt to—well, do absolutely nothing. For, the "hipster," unlike the hippie, does not appear to have any concrete political agenda (something which I can, at least, commend the hippie for). Indeed, the only agenda of the hipster is (1) to arrive at physical pleasure, (2) to have their ego elevated through a 'philistine' pondering their absurdities—absurdities which they themselves even hopelessly fail to comprehend.

The hipster is a curious amalgam of bygone subcultures—thoroughly enhaloed by a perceptible aura of the most wretched egotism. It is an egotism that would even make the debauchery of a Roman seem like the deeds of the purest saint. However, the hipster does not inherently approve of the subcultures that it incorporates into its "being," but rather, one may say the hipster credo is: "That which is 'uncool,' is 'cool' if one first acknowledges that it is not 'cool'." Therefore, the 'cool' of a material, or object, lies exclusively in one's acknowledgment of the item's 'uncoolness.' —However! should one chance to be unaware of what is inherently 'cool inasmuch as it is uncool,' (now, one must read this attentively) then one must consequently resort to precisely what the whole lot of these wretches seem to resort to: namely, aping one another. But, beware! (he who apes), it must also be acknowledged that certain elements of the hipster are oftentimes aped into exhaustion—thereby becoming "uncool insofar as it's acknowledged uncoolness—which had been rendered ultimately "cool," but not inherently "cool"—has been acknowledged by one too many." But, surely, these are mere frivolities.

As for the creations of the hipster: the hipster believes that they are creating art, but, in reality, their "art" is doomed to dissolve into naught, once they themselves ultimately become little more than an outmoded subculture. For there is no substance in the hipster—it is rather (as I had once heard it described) a mere "aesthetic-vacuum," (but tasteless aesthetics)—a creature born during one of the most prosperous (but also most decadent) epochs in American history. Indeed, the hipster will inevitably be goaded into submission once the failings of their 'creations' are realised.

Now, to digress from my ravings slightly: one may argue that there have been other egotistical and hedonistic fashions/subcultures over the course of Occidental history. Namely, the maccaroni of the 18th century (you know the ditty, "stuck a feather in his hat, etc.") who had once been described thus :

"There is indeed a kind of animal, neither male nor female, a thing of the neuter gender, lately started up among us. It is called a macaroni. It talks without meaning, it smiles without pleasantry, it eats without appetite, it rides without exercise, it wenches without passion."

However, the maccaroni also differs from the hipster, insofar as the maccaroni is not an amalgam of disparate cultures, but rather an exaggerated product of high, European culture—a creature with overly-refined tastes. The hipster, on the contrary, exults in bad taste (that is, if one first acknowledges that it is, indeed, bad).

I know that there is a great deal more that I can say about the matter. But, to be quite honest, I can no longer discourse on this trivial matter. For, I have written this out of sheer detestation for that brood of hedonistic, pseudo-intellectual cretins who claim to be representatives of "art." But, rather, the hipster is merely a louse—treading ever so slowly—nigh the contemptible form of dying postmodernism.

Yea! The so-called "hipster intelligentsia" should be hanged by the fabric of their keffiyehs, and their contemptible ilk should be flogged out of existence—only to be cruelly thrust into the face of their dreaded, though inevitable fate. A fate which is not hell, but worse—white-collar normalcy.

ON MODERN CLIENT STATES

2009-12-03T15:41:00.001-08:00

IN THE ROMAN REPUBLIC, and the later Roman Empire, client kings were known to have ruled the client states, or "provinces," of the conquered East. In the conquered West, however, where the barbarous tribes once reigned, Roman governors were appointed to rule the newly united provinces.

In the East, where the people had been civilized for thousands of years preceding the consummation of the Roman Empire, client kings were assigned to rule, as a means to satiate the people—as a means to avoid revolt. Indeed, the Romans had decided that to appoint a client king in a governor's stead would allow the people of the conquered East to live with the illusion of possessing some sovereignty—the illusion of being hitherto unconquered by some upstart empire to the West.

To expand rather slightly on these claims, I will state two examples as a means to further illustrate my meaning.

Before the Romans had conquered the Germanic tribes, these people were wholly unfamiliar with the concept of a single, united nation that is led by an absolute ruler. Rather, they had only been familiar with the concept of a chieftain leading a certain group of people—people without any definitive borders (e.g. Arminius of the Cherusci). But, once the Romans had conquered Germania and successfully united these disparate tribes; these people, at once, became familiar with the idea of an absolute ruler leading a single, coherent nation with definitive boundaries.

But, long before the Romans had conquered the Eastern kingdoms (such as Iudæa and Armenia), these people were more than familiar with the concept of a single, absolute ruler being in control of a coherent empire—an empire with definitive boundaries; with elites, an aristocracy and slaves.

—

But, even in the "great" Modern Age, the dreaded client kingdom (albeit in a slightly altered form) has still not met its dissolution.

Now, as it is known, the dominant empire of the time is doubtless the United States of America—a nation that has influenced the affairs of many a state, for many a decade, with its coveted economic hegemony.

—

Throughout much of the Middle Ages, and even in the Roman Empire itself, a conquerer would oftentimes attempt to make his subjects submit to their religion and/or ideology, as a means to place their reins more firmly around the heads of the newly conquered people.

The Byzantines, for example, had surmised that: if the people were to submit to their religion, then their loyalty to the empire would naturally follow. In brief, to have a conquered people submit to their religion was a sort of "confirmation" for the Byzantines. It confirmed that the people whom they had just conquered would, in due time, submit to their rule; and, moreover, it was a sort of "adhesive" that would render a revolt in the conquered region all the more difficult (as religious strife would also be an adjunct to rebellion).

In the United States of America, however, these conquerers do not use a religion as a means to control the conquered masses, but rather, an ideology whose veneer appears to be that of "freedom and democracy," but whose true substance is oligarchical capitalism, plutocracy, or what you will.

Once the United States conquers a nation with its overwhelming economic hegemony, it demands that the nation then assume an ideology that is like unto its own; and not one that is markedly socialistic, communistic, monarchical, or otherwise.

But, if the United States cannot conquer a nation through discourse and threats of poverty, isolation, etc.; they will quickly resort to ruse, assassination, and faux coups d'état as a means to defrock an "uncooperative" ruler, and thence install a "modern client king" who is in cahoots with them—one who is from the conquered state, but has rejected the ideology of the conquered state—only to assume the ideology of the conquering empire. This client king will then convince his people to unfetter themselves from the oppressive and radical rule of their natural despots, and assume the more "noble" ideology of the All-Powerful Empire of the time (under the guise of freedom and democracy).

Now, although I can certainly enumerate several examples to support my claim, I believe that my readers will be more than familiar with those that I would wish to enumerate (e.g. Cuba, Guatemala, Bolivia, Iraq, Afghanistan, etc.)

—

In conclusion, if one observes the behaviour of any modern state that is swayed by the economic hegemony of the United States, and then reflects on the the client kingdoms of ancient Rome, one will come to realise that they are markedly similar.

But, considering that most (if not all) modern states had been civilized long before the United States became the dominant power, they (much like the Eastern empires of antiquity) tend to be bestowed with a type of ruler that is like unto a "client king."

As I've already remarked, such client kingdoms are the most easily perceptible in the "cooperative" states of South and Central America (such as Guatemala, Ecuador, etc.). However, there are indeed some states (such as Venezuela and Bolivia) that are considered "uncooperative" or "rebellious" kingdoms, insofar as they are not a client kingdom—they are still not under, nor have they shaken off, the yoke of the American Empire.

—

As a side note, it would also be apposite to mention that the United States is often lauded for "fighting for the sovereignty and independence" of a nation. But, the United States will only fight for another's independence if such a nation is not restive, but rather placidly submits to the conquering empire (that is, to wear the American yoke). Indeed, it is in such a case that the United States does not mind "fighting for a nation's independence," insofar as they're aware that, in reality, they are "conquering" the aforesaid nation.

For example, the Americans were hesitant to aid the Tamil Tigers in their effort to establish a Tamil state, or to aid Hugo Chavez in the 2002 Venezuelan coup, but they did not scruple to "liberate" Kosovo, Afghanistan, Georgia, Nicaragua, etc. And, the reason for this is plain: the nation that they are "liberating" are, in reality, nations that they are conquering.

The Colloquy of Madame Courant & Mister Yore.

2009-11-22T04:22:00.000-08:00

* Originally posted as "A Song of Yore" in 2009, but originally scribbled in 2006-07.

QUIJOTEFREUDE

2009-11-12T03:37:00.000-08:00

Ladies & Gentlemen,

There's a curious phenomenon that appears to be brewing in cauldron of our culture. And, it's a phenomenon which I prefer to deem, "Quijotefreude."

Now, if I were to define this phenomenon in brief, I would venture to define it thus: "an instance whereby a complicit group of people attempt to convince an isolated person, who is comically inept in a given domain, that he is, in reality, profoundly adept—perhaps even unparalleled—in the said domain, as a means of arriving at some 'amusement."

At first glance, one may claim that such a phenomenon is slightly akin to the better-known schadenfreude. Yet, it differs insofar as the subject must be starkly oblivious to his misfortunes, and even instigate his very own doom through (what he believes is) a display of his "unparalleled" talent.

—

First, concerning the phenomenon known as schadenfreude: in some cultures, it seems to be comparatively rife; whilst, in others, it is simply nonexistent.

And, although I cannot speak for many European nations, I can certainly attest that it is a popular form of comic relief throughout much of the Northeastern United States. And, I believe that it must therefore follow that Quijotefreude (being a derivative of schadenfreude) is equally—if not more—popular in the selfsame region.

But, I digress. My aim is not to illustrate a map of differing humours and tastes, but rather to propound the very nature of this phenomenon.

—

One will find that he arrives most often at Quijotefreude through the media of television, the Internet, and radio; insofar as the most popular "elicitors" of Quijotefreude seem to be manifested in the form of a singer, entertainer or deluded intellectual. One who is markedly untalented yet, at the same time, is wholly convinced that he (or she) is quite the contrary.

But, I must first touch upon the germination and consummation of this phenomenon before I begin to describe its elicitors at length.

This phenomenon seems to germinate once an instigator (that is, one who is exceptionally amused by the delusions of the Quijotefreude elicitor/subject) coaxes the elicitor into believing that any individual who should even dare question his most "extraordinary" talent is indeed the veritable subject of delusion. (i.e., William Hung (a Quijotefreude elicitor) is told to perform by an audience (the instigators)).That is to say, the instigator(s) attempts to convince a madman that it is the sane—and not he—who are mad.

Suchlike coaxing will oftentimes lead a deluded elicitor/subject to do precisely what it is that the instigator desires (namely, performing for the masses and thereby making himself the fool).

But, "Why does the instigator wish to see the elicitor perform?", one may venture to enquire. Well, the instigator wishes for the elicitor of Quijotefreude to perform in order to (1) evoke Quijotefreude in his mind, and thereby arrive at amusement; and (2) unwittingly permit an even greater bevy of instigators, and feignèd flatterers to share in his amusements.

And, this cycle is to be repeated until the audience have exhausted the elicitor of all that he has to offer—having glutting themselves sufficiently with their frivolous amusements. Thence only to hurl the poor wretch into a gutter, and await the arrival of the forthcoming fool (or, elicitor of Quijotefreude).

—

Pray, permit to expand upon the etymology of the term.

I've chosen to deem this phenomenon "Quijotefreude" insofar as the famed Don Quixote de la Mancha (an elicitor of Quijotefreude) was often made the fool by Maese Nicolas and Pero Pérez (the audience), and he thus allowed these men to arrive at amusement through Quijotefreude.

Should one happen to be unfamiliar with the history of these figures: these two characters had convinced Don Quixote, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, that he was indeed a most enchanted and fearsome knight—a knight of unprecedented gallantry, &c., &c.—ultimately arriving at amusement through, not only the folly and delusion of the knight, but indeed, even through his singular readiness to believe them.

—

This phenomenon, I have observed in some of the lowest—as well as in some of the most distinguished—quarters.

In academia, for example, there is a miserable (and evidently senile) old wretch who goes by the name "Doctor" Gene Ray. Now, I believe this gentlemen professes that our planet is enveloped by a sort of "transparent cube," which he has chosen to deem the "Time Cube," and—no, no—I refuse to delineate the matter any further. Rather, let it suffice to say that his theory is absurd—little more than the product of a madman.

Yet, even in spite of his apparent madness, this man has lectured at a number of prestigious universities (most notably, The Massachusetts Institute of Technology), where he is received as little more than a jape—an elicitor of Quijotefreude—, and is ridiculed by professors and students alike. But, all the while, the man remains starkly oblivious to the very depth of his resounding ridicule, and has even donned shirts and baseball caps emblazoned with some words that commemorate his "lecture."

Now, though some may suggest that these singular men (men such as Dr Gene Ray) are little more than "quacks and charlatans," and must quickly be rejected as such; I rather feel compelled to contest such a claim. For, I believe that the subject of Quijotefreude (contrary to the run-of-the-mill charlatan) is hopelessly oblivious to his charlatanism; whilst the genuine charlatan, on the contrary, is quite conscious of the fact that: what exactly it is that he's professing is, in fact, little more than a falsity. For, even if the charlatan were to convince himself that he does indeed possess the very knowledge that he pretends to possess, I believe that he would still remain ultimately aware of his charlatanism (even if his cognizance were merely subconscious).

—

Moreover, in regard to those "lower quarters," about which I've just spoken: in the world of men, there are few who will seek to entertain, and there are many who will fail at that piddling endeavour.

And, it seems that when an aspiring entertainer fails egregiously—even plummeting far below the acceptable threshold of failure—, his failures then mutate into a new form of entertainment—a pastime in and of itself. It is a form of entertainment that is bolstered, almost solely, by our dear phenomenon, Quijotefreude.

And, the moment that the masses begin to realize how much pleasure they've received from the failures of a fool, they then hasten to capitalize on his delusions by carrying the wretch proudly upon their shoulders, and placing him firmly upon a pedestal of excreta—convincing him all the while that the excreta is, in reality, composed of the finest marble. And, not only will the simpleton believe these villains, but he will even mistake their laughter for sighs of wonderment, and their guffaws, for wailings of delight.

—

To conclude, though these circumstances are unfortunate, I certainly cannot hasten to blame the ever-joyous masses for the misfortunes of the poor elicitor. For, had it not been the pride of our elicitor in the beginning that thrust him into such misery?

But, if one happens interested in doing a simple, eleemosynary deed; one may take pity on the miserable wretch by duly apprising him that he is merely "a curio, a jape, an elicitor of Quijotefreude."

And, in future, rather than explaining the many particulars of an elicitor's plight in florid detail, one may henceforward utter these five, simple words: "Thou art a Quijotefreude phenomenon!" and, in an instant, the elicitor will begin to realise his bleak depravity.

A RANT DIRECTED AT THE HOMELESS

2009-04-29T17:10:00.001-07:00

They say this town is full of cozenage;

As, nimble jugglers that deceive the eye,

Dark-working sorcerers that change the mind,

Soul-killing witches that deform the body,

Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks,

And many such-like liberties of sin

- The Comedy of Errors, Act I, Scene II

I certainly do not mind — nay, I exult in — bestowing several euros upon the homeless. However, when I am cozened into the deed, or when I detect that someone is donning a visage of false despair, it is quite difficult for me to pity them. In fact, at that point, I begin to detest them.

One Romani woman, to wit, had presented me a clipboard in hopes that I would aid les sourds-muets. However, upon my having declined her simple request, I received a grateful blow to the chest by her surly fist, along with a number of incomprehensible upbraidings; which were delievered in her very own, barbarous tongue. Was she, indeed, deaf and dumb? I am inclined to say... 'No'.

Another fairly well-dressed gentlemen had requested that I grant him €3 for a 'bus ticket', only to discover some two hours later that he would make the selfsame request to another unwitting pedestrian. I consoled him with a pat on the back and a subsequent dispelling of saliva in his right ear. 'Bonne chance, Monsieur!'

This and suchlike cozenage I am able to detect almost instanteously, and I therefore prefer to bestow my earnings upon the taciturn fellow with the simple, honest sign that reads, 'Aidez-moi, s'il vous plaît'.

The French hommes sans-abri differ considerably from 'the homeless' of the United States. Although I have never been to the Western United States, I can certainly comment on the homeless of the East — particularly those of New York. The homeless of the East are, for a lack of better words, miserable wretches; many of whom are scarcely capable of finding a comfortable t-shirt; nevermind a wardrobe more varied than my own.

In brief, the homeless of France tend to dress better than your average American.

For I have seen homeless in the US who are compelled to drag their miserable form across the asphalt with a single, deformed extremity that serves as both an arm and a leg (depending on the situation) — donning an outfit made from a 1 October 1992 print of The New York Times.

In conclusion, always give to the poor.

SANTA CLAUS: CHILDREN BEWARE

2009-04-29T17:06:00.000-07:00

"Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho,

ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho,

ho, ho, ho, ho, ad infinitum".

With a beard so white, and cheeks so ruddy, how can one possibly accuse this affable figure — our dear, Ol' Saint Nick — of laying ruin to the future of so many unwitting children? With his 'ho, ho, ho's' and his flying, ruby-nosed, radioactive reindeer; how, I ask, can a man so beneficient possibly be caricatured a villain? Damn the man who accuses ol' Nick of villainy! Damn him to the foulest belly of Dis!

Of course, various groups have been condemning Father Christmas since the entity's very emergence: from his proscription under the republic of Oliver Cromwell, to his proscription under various, Protestant sects of the present day. Thus, to relate the villain's history would, quite simply, be in vain; and I shall therefore let suffice it to say this entity has, for a time immemorial, been encumbered by innumerable controversies.

Though, is it not enjoyable to fill a child with excitement? Is not productive to enflame a child's imagination by allowing them to pen letters to this jolly figure — demanding... no, rather... entreating that he bestow an entire Indonesian sweat-shop's worth of toys upon them? Well, now that I think of it, it may stimulate an ailing economy, and therefore, from the perspective of any proud capitalist, may not be so... —

In brief, yes: it has little or no benefit for the development of the child's mental faculties. It is not merely the commercialism of Santa Claus that is damaging to the progress of child, but, rather, the belief in such a beneficent entity (one which the parents know is a fabrication). For it is a belief in Santa Claus that typically holds ground for the longest duration. First, it is revealed to a child that the Tooth Fairy is a fabrication; then the Easter Bunny, and, finally, Ol' Saint Nick. And after the whole gamut of a child's belief is exhausted, the child is finally compelled to question the truth behind their final belief — the belief that still holds ground after the revelation of Santa Claus' demise —: namely, the question of God.

At this point, the child can no longer consult his or her parent, insofar as they now cognizant of the fact that their parents are little more than damnable liars. And, at this point, there are two contingencies — two paths down which the child may tread. The first would assume that the child is wholly subservient to the words of their parents, and will therefore retain their belief in God; insofar as their parents say that it is true. The second contingency being: the child has a bit of gall — a bit of moxie in his gut — and therefore chooses to question the existence of the final entity that still seems to hold some ground (i.e. God).

Now, if the parent is able to emphatise with their child from the outset concerning their ignorance of God's nature, then no trust will be breached, and the child may conclude (through their own observation), whether or not they wish to believe in a higher power. However, it is my conviction that, after a string of continual disappointment resulting from the child's previously held beliefs being dashed to the ground, the child will eventually come to question the very existence of the final, standing entity. After all, a great many athiests seem often remark, upon being asked why it is that they do not believe in God: 'Do you believe in Santa Claus, eh? Do ya'? Do you believe in the Easter Bunny? In Fairies an' Unicorns? No! No!'

Parents do not seem hestiate when they are telling their children that 'Monsters are not real'. But, behold, parents! Monsters do exist! And it is the phantom who goes by the name of 'Ol' Saint Nick'!

LES RÊVES

2009-03-30T13:06:00.000-07:00

I cannot venture to deny that this entire process doesn't smack of decadence — that is to say, posting fugitive poems and epigrams on a 'web log', as if they were recipes for a pot-au-feu. Nonetheless, I am thoroughly aware that we are now dwelling in an age of decadence and must, therefore, attempt (insofar as we are able) to content ourselves with the aforesaid decadence. But, 'to content' does not mean 'to bask in'. And, as I find all modes of profligacy to be objects of detestation, I also find it grossly superfluous for one to 'innovate' in excess.

The golden bowl of poesy has been dashed to the ground, and the 'excessive innovators' are pitifully deadlocked — indeed, they are attempting to construct tiny figures from out the bits of the shattered, golden bowl; pointing at amorphous shapes, and deeming them 'form'.

Though, perhaps, it may be said that the archaicist and innovator are men of a selfsame kin. For, it has been said that Emperor Tiberius detested the two most passionately — finding the both to be equally dissident, and equally at variance with the modes of the age.

Now, I do understand that the poesy of the day is, indeed, representative of the age — that it is a gallery of our dehumanisation; of our essential indifference to the classical domains (namely, poesy); and of a marginalised art form's attempt to shoehorn itself into a world of technics. All the same, will not posterity look back at the decadence of our age and enquire, 'Were they even conscious of their decadence? Were they even capable of doing what once had been done by the ancients — the men before them?'

The men who believe that the current forms will evolve, and result in something of a newfangled splendour, are fools. It is plain that, if humanity does not perish from its follies, someone will rediscover Petrarch, as he had rediscovered the ancients, and will enquire why it is that they had never attempted such before. And, much like the elderly man, who nostalgically listens to the songs of his youth; and returns to the ruins that he had once tenanted; so will mankind inevitably return to a more glorious age — an age that is more sublime.

Perhaps I will continue this rant in the future. But, in the meantime, I needs must eat.

2009-03-28T15:18:00.001-07:00

AN EPIGRAM FOR THE AGE

The Roman sates his love
Amid yon pallid breast;
The Christian—high above—
In God's enlighten'd crest;
Romantics, in the vale—
To weep of love gone by;
And moderns—O, bewail!—
In stale cacophony.

INTRODUCTION

2009-03-27T11:26:00.001-07:00

Indeed, I do not know who will read the contents of this singular blog, but I know, at least, that it is I who will likely be the staunchest – aye, the most loyal – of the lot.

Perchance I should find myself wallowing amid the contemptible Slough of Despond at the mere thought of being (quite likely) the sole reader of this damnable blog. Yea, I can only suspect that this, like many another project, will likely be the product of a moment's caprice; then to fade into naught as something more promising begins to take precedence. I fear that there is very little about which I can speak, and that, if someone is indeed reading this 'blog' – well, I doubt that he (or she – it would be an affront to women not to specify this) are even entertained. How could he (or she) possibly be? For I have done nothing but rant and rave – I have not discoursed on matters political, literary, nor trivial; I have not painted a picture of lillies dithering in the sun, nor of birds singing in the brush! Haha! Nay! This is rubbish – sheer rubbish, man. Alors!

Perhaps I will return to indite some more. But, for the time, I must contemplate my failures.

DOGGEREL

2009-03-27T11:22:00.001-07:00

I once had been told,

By a boy of ten,

That the words herein

Should be seen again—

Not to be meddled with;

Not to be toyed—

But just to be read and,

Yes, even enjoyed.