Self-realization: in reaching for the Français-Anglais dictionnaire three-hundred forty-seven times every sixty seconds, don't doubt, I counted, I was thinking of the immortal words of Socrates who said 'where's my twelve gauge?'
Research lurches
to conjugate? Verbs masturbate, too.
Clean that up, cuckoo.
One flew, dunked
in grape juice.
Frog legs, frog legs
spring imparfait.
Oh, spit.
Don't be so subjonctif.
Rest, take a break 'you' say, and who exactly are 'you,' for 'you' never tell, why you! it's the advent of the seventh day, or the seventieth day or the seven hundred, seventy-seventh day, and verily I shall wallow inn billowie pillouws wythe mellouwe smoothe-nesse. No, I don't smoke cigarettes, menthol or otherwise, nor did I just have kinky sex. Does having it in the mind count? And if so, should I be smoking one of those candy ones?
Alternating this and that and failing, I tried Martinu's lovely, dreamer-on-acid Julietta and various flesh-flaying platters of extra-fiery black metal romanticism -- save for Vreid, but who doesn't harbor an appreciation for a song cycle praising underground Norwegian resistance to Nazi douchebags? -- each on repeat, write, write, write, my hand hurts is that blood? What was the veredictum on the subconsciously-cultivated intertext sewn alternately into a patchwork of crafty, arpeggiated strophes and haphazard shotglass lines that lay upon the table, silent and motionless as a corpse? The opportunity to practice my three-point bomb, but I'm not finished, motherfucking brain, I swear it'll be pretty like flowers. Hey, are you 'you?'
Look, a patron. Are you 'you?'
Sorry, no clip of Who Are You. Either sift your vinyl if a true believer, in which case, Belial bless, or turn on local color if a godless heathen. Yes, 'you.'
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Nonsense fonsense bargle fargle wingus dingus supercalafrageelee wheeee!
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17 comments:
Better a little which is well done, than a great deal imperfectly.
- Plato
May the wheelie bus offer you protection from the elements and the sickly sound of Cthulu coughing up his morning phlegm.
It is all well and good to question whether I am myself today, but I am quite sure that I don't know. ;o)
"Who are YOU?" said the Caterpillar.
This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, "I--I hardly know, sir, just at present-- at least I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then."
You talk just like a French guy trying to talk in English.
Ok, I made it through 1:07 minutes/seconds of that music. I must be getting old, I used to make it through 2 minutes. Who am I? An old chic...and now an old chic with a headache. Oy.
I don't have anything to say about this particular post, so I will ask a question instead.
Why can I order chocolate covered toffee from my Land's End catalog? I know for a fact that they do not make toffee on site themselves. In 1994 my dad worked for them in their Wisconsin headquarters. So if they have someone else make this toffee and just slap their name on it, why shouldn't I just order it directly from the toffee-maker and avoid them altogether? And why what about the Land's End name and brand would make me think they are an authority on toffee anyways?
Also, do you think Dress Barn is basically just Casual Corner with a new name?
Do Norwegians ever record nice songs, something you can hum or sing-a-long to?
See... I'd just quit that french class.
I took French for hmmmm... 12 years in school. I can't understand why anyone would willingly take it when they don't have to.
If you're thinking that verbs are masturbating .. it's time to say Au revoir!
But I know you love it. It gives you something else to bitch about. ;D
((Hugs))
Laura
This post wins the award for the best title ever, in my book anyways. My book is remedial French and has lots of fancy phrases like "Merci" and "Bon Jour".
susan, precisely why I don't write giant hunks of stuff. Cthulhu's gonna eat us all anyway, why waste precious time?
dr.zaius, I love that book, even when sober. ;-)
nunly, you should see my impression of an English guy trying to talk in English.
übermilf, because ordering from Land's End means you are a vile cracker suburbanite. Plus, at land's end, here there be monsters. Do you really want to get devoured by a kraken-type beast composed of toffee?
As for the Dress Barn question, I cannot answer for I shop elsewhere for my out-on-the-town duds.
holte, are you suggesting that wasn't hummable? Quisling!
sunshine, well, I'm a masochist. And apparently predictable, but c'mon, complaining is fun. ;-)
LBR, please, feel free to use this title in the future if necessary. Believe me, what I'm currently writing is quite remedial.
je m'appelle David. ;-)
Randal, please, it's time to give your sensibilities a break from losing football teams, metal rock and verbs pleasuring themselves. Here's a clear indication:
"of Socrates who said 'where's my twelve gauge?"
Setting aside the fact 12 gauges were centuries in the future when Socrates was alive and dispensing wisdom, the operative word in that sentence fragment should be "asked," not "said."
Graves, you swine!
Tu dois te frotter toujours.
Regards,
Tengrain
david, j'oublie mon nom!
SWA, are you saying that Socrates wasn't smart enough to build a time machine, grammar Nazi?
tengrain, c'est vrai car ma femme ne fait jamais.
...Socrates who said 'where's my twelve gauge?
Was that Bubba Socrates you were mentioning? He lives down a dirt road in a trailer a couple of miles from my place. SOB owes me money.
Lucky for Socrates he had his twelve gauge. It's much quicker than hemlock, which he otherwise would have had to drink.
BB, owes you money? So he's familiar with the workings of the modern world?
tom, he should be happy he didn't have the state of Ohio trying to off him.
Ok Randal, you've got me. I took Frenchg in high school because I didn't like German and I fancied the French teacher (female of cousre). What does "j'oublie mon nom" mean? I am a typical Brit who only speaks one language, apart from when I've had too many beers and I speak my "own" language, more commonly known as "shite" :-).
Best wishes, David.
At least you had the chance for French in high school. For us it was either German, Spanish or, yep, Latin.
J'oublie mon nom = I forget my name. And hang on a sec, I sure as hell don't speak French, my prof can attest to that shite, arse, wanker. I think that's all the Brit slang I know. ;-)
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