Principia Discordia

Principia Discordia => Literate Chaotic => Topic started by: hooplala on November 21, 2005, 09:54:35 PM

Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Marx
Post by: hooplala on November 21, 2005, 09:54:35 PM
Oxo Marx awoke on a Monday morning with a large blemish on his left cheek. He felt it the moment his eyes opened; the muscles moving to let light into his brain sent a sharp, fierce pain throughout his face, and he let out a small sound: -Gahaaa.

Sitting up, within his sheets, he sought it out with his fingertips, delicately feeling out the soft flesh below his eye like a blindman might. When he touched the pimple another shockwave of pain fluttered through his face, causing his eyes to blink a few times without his permission. A tear rose to attention in his left eye, but didn't have the heart to jump.

-Goddammit, Oxo hissed through clenched teeth. -A pimple. A fucking pimple.

He was angry not only because it was Monday, a day he routinely loathed, but also because he was meant to have his first date with Priscilla later than evening. He had bought tickets for the circus. He didn't know if Priscilla liked the circus anymore, but she had been an elephant rider for years, and then quit one summer day to become a dental hygienist. Just like that. He hoped she still liked the circus. He hoped she wouldn't notice his pimple.

The pimple, not his pimple. He wasn't going to think of it as his, he had nothing to do with it, apart from the fact that it had decided to nest on his face.

-Goddammit, he hissed again, and got out of bed.

As he walked to the bathroom to survey the damage, he let out a fantastically long and loud fart. Feeling slightly better, he faced his reflection in the mirror. It was worse than he thought. The pimple was about the size of a quarter, red, pulsating, a drop of pus just starting to ooze from the head. 'A decidedly ugly pimple', he thought to himself. He laughed then. -As if there's an attractive pimple. he said to himself.

It was then that the pimple spoke.

YOU'RE NOT SO HOT YERSELF, YA KNOW. it said. He believed he even saw the pore open and close slightly as it spoke. The movement was painful, and uninvited. It was, to be quite frank, insulting. He was not used to being addressed by blemishes, and chose to ignore the remark.

Oxo turned on the water in the shower, and when it had reached the desired temperature, he stepped inside. The water smacked the pimple immediately, jolting him again, and Oxo turned his back to the hot stream. He cursed slightly under his breath, and the pimple throbbed. He felt it was gearing up to speak again, or had he imagined that? No blemish had ever spoken to him before, and he had never heard of a blemish speaking to anyone else. He had just gotten out of bed, after all, perhaps its the was the remains of a dream. A hypnogogic hallucination . . . or hypnopompic maybe, he could never remember which was which.

As he stood in the shower, feebly washing his chest with a sudsy rag, he went over what he had heard the pimple say. "You're not so hot yourself, you know." it had said. He washed the back of his neck. He knew he wasn't the best looking guy in the world, that's precisely why getting the pimple in the first place had angered him so much. He really didn't need the pimple to point it out to him. He washed his left arm. Oxo had never been particularly attractive, in fact he still harboured the memory of a girl on the bus telling him point blank "You're ugly" when he was fifteen. He hated that memory. He hated the memory, and hated that he remembered it so vividly, when he had forgotten so many other memories. He wasn't certain if the memories he had forgotten were good ones or bad ones, since he had forgotten them, but he secretly always assumed they were good ones. It would be just like him to only remember bad memories. He washed his genitals. The thing about that memory that bothered him most was what he had ended up responded at the time. He didn't like to think about it. Oxo washed the crack of his ass. Witty comebacks had never been his strong suit, nor had quick thinking on his feet. When she had told him he was ugly he hadn't known what to say, he was so blown away by the sheer naked honesty of the comment. He responded, quietly, "I know." and quickly taken a seat, his ears and neck turning red, and burning hot. Oxo washed the back of his neck again.

He thought of the memory again, saw the girl's face, her casual indifference, and started to become angry again, after fifteen years. He would love to meet the girl again. He would love to see her on the street, or on the bus, and have something to say back to her. Oxo was mindlessly running the rag back and forth across his chest now. He imagined bumping into her on the street and saying "Oh I remember you, you're the girl who said I was ugly. Well, did I mention that you have bad breath?" No no no.

He slapped the sudsy rag down to the bathtub. What a terrible retort. Even after fifteen years he couldn't think of anything good to say back to her. Say something hurtful, something that would make her think about the comment later, much later. Maybe for the rest of her life. Tell her that she has fat thighs or that she has . . . he paused, remembering. It occurred to Oxo that he couldn't actually remember the girl's face anymore, he could only remember his memory of it. She had blonde hair and blue eyeshadow, that much he knew, but would he be able to recognize her on the street if he saw her now? He didn't think so.

Oxo turned the water off, and stood dripping. He was going to be damned if he would spend another fifteen years wondering if he could have responded more appropriately to his pimple. Without drying, he stepped out of the bathtub and faced the mirror. He wiped away the fog that steam had left on the surface and looked at the pimple. It still throbbed.

-Say something, smartass. he said to it. It throbbed on, but made no reply. He looked down at it, another single drop of pus starting to ooze out of the head. -C'mon smart guy. Say something smart. I dare you.

The pus dribbled out of the head, but still no reply was forthcoming.

Oxo leaned in, toward the mirror, almost pressing his face against the reflection. -Say something you little fuck, I know you want to . . . come on!

And then the pimple spoke again. The pore opened and closed as it said YOU'RE UGLY. then began to giggle.

Oxo stared at it, dumbstruck. He had expected it to repeat its original comment. Standing there, still dripping wet and nude, Oxo began to shake with rage. Again! Again with that comment, and now from a pimple. A fucking pimple. That was the last straw.

He was getting rid of the pimple. The pimple was going to be gone, that's all there was to it. One way or another.

Oxo stalked off into his apartment, slammed open a closet, and began to rummage through a box in the bottom. He thought he could hear the pimple ask what he was doing, but kept lifting objects up, feeling beneath them and then dropping them back down and moving on. Finally, his finger tips found what he was looking for.

Oxo Marx pulled out his father's saw. -HA! he cried out in triumph. He walked into the kitchen, took out the cutting board he had never used, and placed it onto the counter. He turned his head, laid it onto the cutting board, and began to saw at his neck in long quick strokes. In three full slices his head came off from the stump and rolled into his sink.

In this way, the problem was solved.



THE FUNERAL OF OXO MARX

Oxo Marx's funeral was a small, sad affair, attended only by his mother, who was blind, deaf, dumb and not very good at crossword puzzles; his sister Oxa, who was on an oxygen mask, not because she needed it, but because she thought it was hip; his almost girlfriend Priscilla, who was now considering returning to the circus; his landlord, Willy Man, who had found the self-beheaded Oxo and considered him a pretty good tenant; and a mysterious woman in black, whose face was obscured by a thick veil.

The funeral was lead by Reverend Ricardo, who Oxo's mother trusted with her life, and most of her savings. His speech was short, and to the point.
"Let's be honest, people. Oxo wasn't an overly popular man. And, for good reasons. His breath was rank, his teeth had a fuzzy film, he made objectional comments on a routine basis, and besides all that he never liked reality tv. There were many things wrong with Oxo, and the world is probably better off without him. He beheaded himself, which to my knowledge has never been done before, this is itself an accomplishment, and probably his only one, so let us savour it. Uh . . . yeah, that's about it I suppose. Does anyone want to say a few words?"

Oxo's sister Oxa raised her hand wearily.  Reverend Ricardo stood aside as she staggered to the podium, and took three minutes to arrange her oxygen mask perfectly. Then, she cleared her throat, leaned down to the microphone and said: "Phlegm. Formica. Saliva. Bochi. Wang Doodle. Syphon. Thank you. These are. Just some words. I like to say. Thank you."
Oxa shuffled back to her seat and noisily rearranged her oxygen mask.

There was some awkward silence before Reverend Ricardo made his way back to the podium. Just before he spoke for the final time he turned away and took a nip from his flask. "Well," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "I guess that's it. It actually took longer than I expected. Who wants to get drunk?"

The mourners wandered away from the grave, except for the mysterious woman in black, who lingered by the grave stone until the cemetery was empty, then she leaned down and whispered to the stone: "I just like to go to funerals."

Then she walked away, went home, and ate some white toast.








**edited to correct the title
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: Bella on November 21, 2005, 10:07:02 PM
:P  No wait! I mean how sad.  :cry:

Such a lovely story.
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: East Coast Hustle on November 21, 2005, 10:13:24 PM
Mikey likes it.

8)
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: Cain on November 21, 2005, 10:19:53 PM
Quote"I just like to go to funerals."

Who doesnt?
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: hooplala on November 23, 2005, 07:17:53 PM
I loathe funerals.

Maybe because I've only ever been to funerals for people I didn't really like in my family - I hate to have to pretend to be nice.
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: Cain on November 23, 2005, 07:19:51 PM
Yeah, I can see that being a problem actually.  Restraint is a tough act to pull off.
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: Eldora, Oracle of Alchemy on November 23, 2005, 07:48:04 PM
I hate all the crying, so I make people laugh, it's my job.  They've done plenty of crying by the time I get there and they'll do plenty more later.  I hate it when they have some preacher person up there going jesus, blah, blah, god, blah, blah, who cares?  If I wanted to hear about that kind of crap, I would go to church.  Anything ever happens to me, I want one of you guys to do the Eulogy, seriously.  My uptight relatives deserve it and the ones that aren't uptight will get the joke  :lol:
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: LMNO on November 23, 2005, 07:50:10 PM
...and then the entire congregation will be forced to chant, "STFU... STFU...STFU..."



At least, that's what I wan at my funeral.
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: Enrico Salazar on November 23, 2005, 07:51:49 PM
The Eulogy:

"Eldora, Enrico hardly knew ye, but what he did know was certainly in biblical sense.

She was woman.  She could tear the skin of off rhinoceros.  She smelled like pickles.

Enrico will miss her.

So, who's next?"
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: Bella on November 23, 2005, 07:53:10 PM
What the hell. Me next, please.
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: Enrico Salazar on November 23, 2005, 07:56:36 PM
"Enrico was with Bella once when she slaughtered a meter maid.  Not because she ticketed her car, but just because she didn't like her face.

Enrico admires that kind of humor.

Bella also liked snakes.  That was Bella wasn't it?  She had red hair . . . they all melt together after time.  Bella was woman.  Enrico likes that.

Which way is chip dip?"
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: East Coast Hustle on November 23, 2005, 07:57:18 PM
Quote from: Eldora, Oracle of Alchemy...I make people laugh, it's my job...

in that case, you're fucking fired with no chance of rehire.

8)
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: Bella on November 23, 2005, 08:08:20 PM
Quote from: Enrico Salazar"Enrico was with She Who Eats Souls once when she slaughtered a meter maid.  Not because she ticketed her car, but just because she didn't like her face.

Enrico admires that kind of humor.

She Who Eats Souls also liked snakes.  That was She Who Eats Souls wasn't it?  She had red hair . . . they all melt together after time.  She Who Eats Souls was woman.  Enrico likes that.

Which way is chip dip?"
You're way too modest, Enrico. That particular slaughter was inspired by the glorious, and completely spontaneous, pornographic love poem you had just recited to that old woman standing in the doorway of the television repair shop. I felt it was the best and most appropriate tribute possible - besides I wanted that sweet little hat she was wearing.
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: East Coast Hustle on November 23, 2005, 08:14:09 PM
I want a eulogy.

8)
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: Enrico Salazar on November 23, 2005, 08:14:13 PM
Quote from: She Who Lurks Beyond, Oracle of Doom
Quote from: Enrico Salazar"Enrico was with She Who Eats Souls once when she slaughtered a meter maid.  Not because she ticketed her car, but just because she didn't like her face.

Enrico admires that kind of humor.

She Who Eats Souls also liked snakes.  That was She Who Eats Souls wasn't it?  She had red hair . . . they all melt together after time.  She Who Eats Souls was woman.  Enrico likes that.

Which way is chip dip?"
You're way too modest, Enrico. That particular slaughter was inspired by the glorious, and completely spontaneous, pornographic love poem you had just recited to that old woman standing in the doorway of the television repair shop. I felt it was the best and most appropriate tribute possible - besides I wanted that sweet little hat she was wearing.

Old lady in doorway certainly did seem to appreciate, I've never seen someone giggle and fart so rhythmically before.  Was beautiful.

Those meter maid hats are so slutty - that should become the new fetishwear.
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: Enrico Salazar on November 23, 2005, 08:21:49 PM
Quote from: East Coast HustleI want a eulogy.

8)

"Mr. Turd was only man Enrico admired the tattoos of . . . never before had he seen a tattoo of Traci Lords which could -just by him sucking his stomach in and out- satisfy itself in a truly bizarre manner.  At first it frightened Enrico, this is how he knew how fucking gorgeous it was - beauty always makes Enrico vomit.

Also . . . he invented a pizza for Enrico, which brings a tear to his glass eye.  The Salazorian Sausage Special is still what Enrico eats as he sits down to look through old pictures of their days robbing Office Supply stores simply because they both hated Liquid Paper.

Enrico can't go on . . . is too much . . . is . . . is . . . is it just Enrico or is this corpse coming on to him?"
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: East Coast Hustle on November 23, 2005, 08:39:33 PM
righteous!

:lol:
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: The Good Reverend Roger on November 24, 2005, 12:17:08 AM
Quote from: Enrico Salazar
Quote from: East Coast HustleI want a eulogy.

8)

"Mr. Turd was only man Enrico admired the tattoos of . . . never before had he seen a tattoo of Traci Lords which could -just by him sucking his stomach in and out- satisfy itself in a truly bizarre manner.  At first it frightened Enrico, this is how he knew how fucking gorgeous it was - beauty always makes Enrico vomit.

Also . . . he invented a pizza for Enrico, which brings a tear to his glass eye.  The Salazorian Sausage Special is still what Enrico eats as he sits down to look through old pictures of their days robbing Office Supply stores simply because they both hated Liquid Paper.

Enrico can't go on . . . is too much . . . is . . . is . . . is it just Enrico or is this corpse coming on to him?"


OMFG THAT'S SO FUNNAY!111
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: Bella on November 24, 2005, 12:23:18 AM
Quote from: Enrico Salazar
Those meter maid hats are so slutty - that should become the new fetishwear.
Damn. I wish I could remember where I put that hat.
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: Eldora, Oracle of Alchemy on November 24, 2005, 12:34:09 AM
Quote from: She Who Lurks Beyond, Oracle of Doom
Quote from: Enrico Salazar
Those meter maid hats are so slutty - that should become the new fetishwear.
Damn. I wish I could remember where I put that hat.

Was that meter maid also a librarian?  :shock:
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: Bella on November 24, 2005, 02:37:11 AM
You meant to tell me librarians also get to wear slutty hats?
Crap. Oracles are stuck with stupid turbans.


Well, except for that one sweet little black hat with the veil.
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: hooplala on November 24, 2005, 05:17:35 PM
Quote from: She Who Lurks Beyond, Oracle of DoomYou meant to tell me librarians also get to wear slutty hats?
Crap. Oracles are stuck with stupid turbans.


Well, except for that one sweet little black hat with the veil.


Oh, I don't know . . . there's something to be said for the turban. It certainly commands respect.
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: Bella on November 24, 2005, 05:26:45 PM
Quote from: Baron von Hoopla
Quote from: She Who Lurks Beyond, Oracle of DoomYou meant to tell me librarians also get to wear slutty hats?
Crap. Oracles are stuck with stupid turbans.


Well, except for that one sweet little black hat with the veil.


Oh, I don't know . . . there's something to be said for the turban. It certainly commands respect.
You think? Hmmmm........yeah, but mine keeps slipping down over one eye.
Even my cat is laughing at me.
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: hooplala on November 24, 2005, 05:29:00 PM
One eye is the best!   Just play it like you want it like that . . .
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: Bella on November 24, 2005, 05:30:06 PM
Okay. :P  I could just pretend that I actually believe it makes me look all mysterious and spooky instead of silly.
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: hooplala on November 24, 2005, 05:32:58 PM
That's what I was thinking.  The hidden eye is the eye that SEES.
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: Bella on November 24, 2005, 05:36:07 PM
You should see this stupid turban. It was a present from a client and it's some sort of shiny black fabric with a giant crusty looking crystal ball made out of sequins. Pure class.
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: hooplala on November 24, 2005, 05:47:15 PM
So it's a little bit like something Norma Desmond would wear?
Title: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: Fizzwitz Glorypoop on November 24, 2005, 09:06:16 PM
(http://bbs.fuckedcompany.com/icons/postpics.gif)
Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: hooplala on July 09, 2008, 02:52:38 AM
BUMPed for excessive use of the dreaded SEMICOLON!!!
Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: Thurnez Isa on July 09, 2008, 03:05:00 AM
holy shit i never read this one
Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: hooplala on July 09, 2008, 03:07:17 AM
Don't tell nostalgicBastard...  he'll get the literary police to string me up.
Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: Payne on July 09, 2008, 03:42:08 AM
FIVE!

FIVE MOTHERFUCKIN SEMICOLONS!

You fail at writing, and obviously despise your readers and yourself.
Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: Messier Undertree on July 09, 2008, 03:45:17 AM
Quote from: Payne on July 09, 2008, 03:42:08 AM
FIVE!

FIVE MOTHERFUCKIN MOTHERFUCKIN' SEMICOLONS!

You fail at writing, and obviously despise your readers and yourself.
Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: Payne on July 09, 2008, 03:51:23 AM
(http://i209.photobucket.com/albums/bb163/wompcabal/stingerdave.jpg)
Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: hooplala on July 09, 2008, 01:21:01 PM
Quote from: Payne on July 09, 2008, 03:42:08 AM
FIVE!

FIVE MOTHERFUCKIN SEMICOLONS!

You fail at writing, and obviously despise your readers and yourself.

Obviously!
Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: Honey on July 12, 2008, 01:33:56 AM
Hi Hooopla,

I really liked your story.  I like the way you use words.  The voice is playful, strangely subtle & flexible.  You want to laugh with this guy yet you wanna shake him up a bit too.  I like the other characters too, barely introduced & yet you wanna know more about them somehow?

I read your story, then read it again.  Then I started thinking about the relationship between memory, time, the mind & the senses.  & the theory of cognitive dissonance too.  It also made me think of 1 of my favorite novels.  A certain passage.  Being somewhat obsessive & idiosyncratic in my ways I just had to find that particular quote.  I started rummaging though my books & found it.  This is it.  Oh & before you read it, I just want to let you know it does have a semicolon in it.    

QuoteBy slowing the course of their night, by dividing it into different stages, each separate from the next, Madame de T. has succeeded in giving the small span of time accorded them the semblance of a marvelous little architecture, of a form.  Imposing form on a period of time is what beauty demands, but so does memory.  For what is formless cannot be grasped, or committed to memory.  Conceiving their encounter as a form was especially precious for them, since their night was to have no tomorrow and could only be repeated through recollection.

There is a secret bond between slowness & memory, between speed & forgetting.  Consider this utterly commonplace situation: a man is walking down the street.  At a certain moment, he tries to recall something, but the recollection escapes him.  Automatically, he slows down.  Meanwhile, a person who wants to forget a disagreeable  incident he has just lived through starts unconsciously to speed up his pace, as if he were trying to distance himself from a thing too close to him in time.

In existential mathematics, that experience takes the form of two basic equations: the degree of slowness is directly proportional to the intensity of memory; the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgetting.

Milan Kundera, Slowness

The different senses are each somehow related to memory.  Of course I don't really understand how it all works but it's 1 of those concepts you can easily play around with if you like to do that sort of thing.  I sometimes wonder if perception is a sense in the same way tasting, touching, seeing, smelling & hearing are senses?

I'm really interested in the way the mind works.  The mastermind or groupmind process is an interesting concept to me.  I do think it is often misused.  Gathering together, sharing ideas, using the process to learn more.  It's a balancing act.  When you gather a group who all think the same ('yes' men or some such) the results are disappointing (like the people Bush surrounded himself with during his terms).  I think it was Lincoln who gave cabinet jobs to the 3 or 4 people who ran against him? 

Anyway, I really did enjoy reading your story.  I liked everything about it except the part about the white toast.  Thanks.  Respect.   :)

Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: Mesozoic Mister Nigel on July 12, 2008, 01:46:29 AM
That story was fucking AWESOME.
Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: hooplala on July 14, 2008, 01:46:38 PM
Thanks Nigel, and thanks Honey as well... I'm very happy that the story made you remember that quote, because it is an amazing concept I had never really considered before, but its true... I do tend to slow down when trying to think of something from the past.

Incidentally, that story really did happen to me when I was fifteen.  BWAAAAAAAAAA
Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Mark
Post by: hooplala on July 14, 2008, 01:48:37 PM
Also, Honey, sorry the 'white toast' didn't do it for you.  It's one of my favorite non sequiturs I've written, but maybe its just me.
Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Marx
Post by: Honey on July 15, 2008, 12:01:49 AM
Sorry, I meant to edit that out, just a personal thing with me, not important - a story goes with.
Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Marx
Post by: hooplala on July 15, 2008, 12:16:03 AM
Naw, don't worry.  I didn't take it personally.


If I can put up something like that dreadful "poem" I stomped out last week and post it in a shark's tank like PD.com I can take ANY criticism.  Don't worry.

It was meant to be a stupid and pointless way to finish the story.
Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Marx
Post by: Honey on July 16, 2008, 11:43:43 AM
ok, so now I'm curious, just where is? this dreadful poem of yours?  If you show me where it is (couldn't find it?  still nubile here)  I'll show you a silly poem I wrote about 2 or 3 weeks ago while sitting in my car, listening to Lou Reed's Rock n Roll Animal, & waiting for my son & his friends to return.  Well, maybe I will.  I have to find it first, & as I remember it was something about war & the letter W?   

& I liked the "white toast" as non sequitor.  I'm a non sequitor person myself I think?  It's just that I was thinking about memory & time & all the other things after reading your story & the white toast thing brought back a very odd childhood memory that I didn't really want to re-visit.  That's why I really did mean to edit that out 'cuz no one but me (& just maybe my brother or sister) would understand.
Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Marx
Post by: hooplala on July 16, 2008, 01:32:00 PM
http://www.principiadiscordia.com/forum/index.php?topic=17019.0 (http://www.principiadiscordia.com/forum/index.php?topic=17019.0)

I shouldn't have called it a poem.  Its not a poem.  I can do better than that.

If you want to read some of my poetry, go here: http://baronvonhoopla.blogspot.com/search/label/poem (http://baronvonhoopla.blogspot.com/search/label/poem)

The first couple aren't mine, but once you get to "A Plea To Ruth Underwood" its mine, and so are the rest.  I think.
Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Marx
Post by: hooplala on January 28, 2011, 05:36:13 PM
Bump.

Not for my story, but for Enrico's eulogies.
Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Marx
Post by: The Good Reverend Roger on January 28, 2011, 05:44:07 PM
Wow.  I was an ASS in 2004/2005.   :lulz:
Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Marx
Post by: hooplala on January 28, 2011, 05:47:59 PM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on January 28, 2011, 05:44:07 PM
Wow.  I was an ASS in 2004/2005.   :lulz:

:lulz:

To be fair, I believe this was the same week that the thread with Enrico's drawings of PD members came out, so you had very good reason to be.
Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Marx
Post by: The Good Reverend Roger on January 28, 2011, 05:52:12 PM
Quote from: Hoopla on January 28, 2011, 05:47:59 PM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on January 28, 2011, 05:44:07 PM
Wow.  I was an ASS in 2004/2005.   :lulz:

:lulz:

To be fair, I believe this was the same week that the thread with Enrico's drawings of PD members came out, so you had very good reason to be.

Looking back, though, if I'd had the intestinal fortitude to click past that, things would be very different.

For example, Hugh might still be a mod.

:lulz:

So maybe the mindless, all-consuming, rectal-tearing rage wasn't so bad.
Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Marx
Post by: hooplala on January 28, 2011, 05:54:11 PM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on January 28, 2011, 05:52:12 PM
Quote from: Hoopla on January 28, 2011, 05:47:59 PM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on January 28, 2011, 05:44:07 PM
Wow.  I was an ASS in 2004/2005.   :lulz:

:lulz:

To be fair, I believe this was the same week that the thread with Enrico's drawings of PD members came out, so you had very good reason to be.

Looking back, though, if I'd had the intestinal fortitude to click past that, things would be very different.

For example, Hugh might still be a mod.

:lulz:

So maybe the mindless, all-consuming, rectal-tearing rage wasn't so bad.


Exactly.  It's like the sinking of the Titanic... sure, that sucked, but at least we got a Celine Dion song out of it.
Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Marx
Post by: The Good Reverend Roger on January 28, 2011, 05:55:06 PM
Quote from: Hoopla on January 28, 2011, 05:54:11 PM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on January 28, 2011, 05:52:12 PM
Quote from: Hoopla on January 28, 2011, 05:47:59 PM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on January 28, 2011, 05:44:07 PM
Wow.  I was an ASS in 2004/2005.   :lulz:

:lulz:

To be fair, I believe this was the same week that the thread with Enrico's drawings of PD members came out, so you had very good reason to be.

Looking back, though, if I'd had the intestinal fortitude to click past that, things would be very different.

For example, Hugh might still be a mod.

:lulz:

So maybe the mindless, all-consuming, rectal-tearing rage wasn't so bad.


Exactly.  It's like the sinking of the Titanic... sure, that sucked, but at least we got a Celine Dion song out of it.

I'm laughing like a loon, and one of my electricians is looking at me like I've gone crazy.
Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Marx
Post by: hooplala on January 28, 2011, 05:57:58 PM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on January 28, 2011, 05:55:06 PM
Quote from: Hoopla on January 28, 2011, 05:54:11 PM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on January 28, 2011, 05:52:12 PM
Quote from: Hoopla on January 28, 2011, 05:47:59 PM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on January 28, 2011, 05:44:07 PM
Wow.  I was an ASS in 2004/2005.   :lulz:

:lulz:

To be fair, I believe this was the same week that the thread with Enrico's drawings of PD members came out, so you had very good reason to be.

Looking back, though, if I'd had the intestinal fortitude to click past that, things would be very different.

For example, Hugh might still be a mod.

:lulz:

So maybe the mindless, all-consuming, rectal-tearing rage wasn't so bad.


Exactly.  It's like the sinking of the Titanic... sure, that sucked, but at least we got a Celine Dion song out of it.

I'm laughing like a loon, and one of my electricians is looking at me like I've gone crazy.

He'll learn.... he'll learn.
Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Marx
Post by: Doktor Howl on September 20, 2011, 07:42:23 PM
Bump cos I miss hoops.   :sad:
Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Marx
Post by: Freeky on September 21, 2011, 01:11:39 AM
I want eulogy from Uncle Enrico. :cry:
Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Marx
Post by: The Good Reverend Roger on November 02, 2012, 04:25:20 PM
Quote from: Hoopla on November 21, 2005, 09:54:35 PM
Oxo Marx awoke on a Monday morning with a large blemish on his left cheek. He felt it the moment his eyes opened; the muscles moving to let light into his brain sent a sharp, fierce pain throughout his face, and he let out a small sound: -Gahaaa.

Sitting up, within his sheets, he sought it out with his fingertips, delicately feeling out the soft flesh below his eye like a blindman might. When he touched the pimple another shockwave of pain fluttered through his face, causing his eyes to blink a few times without his permission. A tear rose to attention in his left eye, but didn't have the heart to jump.

-Goddammit,

Oxo hissed through clenched teeth. -A pimple. A fucking pimple.

He was angry not only because it was Monday, a day he routinely loathed, but also because he was meant to have his first date with Priscilla later than evening. He had bought tickets for the circus. He didn't know if Priscilla liked the circus anymore, but she had been an elephant rider for years, and then quit one summer day to become a dental hygienist. Just like that. He hoped she still liked the circus. He hoped she wouldn't notice his pimple.

The pimple, not his pimple. He wasn't going to think of it as his, he had nothing to do with it, apart from the fact that it had decided to nest on his face.

-Goddammit, he hissed again, and got out of bed.

As he walked to the bathroom to survey the damage, he let out a fantastically long and loud fart. Feeling slightly better, he faced his reflection in the mirror. It was worse than he thought. The pimple was about the size of a quarter, red, pulsating, a drop of pus just starting to ooze from the head. 'A decidedly ugly pimple', he thought to himself. He laughed then. -As if there's an attractive pimple. he said to himself.

It was then that the pimple spoke.

YOU'RE NOT SO HOT YERSELF, YA KNOW. it said. He believed he even saw the pore open and close slightly as it spoke. The movement was painful, and uninvited. It was, to be quite frank, insulting. He was not used to being addressed by blemishes, and chose to ignore the remark.

Oxo turned on the water in the shower, and when it had reached the desired temperature, he stepped inside. The water smacked the pimple immediately, jolting him again, and Oxo turned his back to the hot stream. He cursed slightly under his breath, and the pimple throbbed. He felt it was gearing up to speak again, or had he imagined that? No blemish had ever spoken to him before, and he had never heard of a blemish speaking to anyone else. He had just gotten out of bed, after all, perhaps its the was the remains of a dream. A hypnogogic hallucination . . . or hypnopompic maybe, he could never remember which was which.

As he stood in the shower, feebly washing his chest with a sudsy rag, he went over what he had heard the pimple say. "You're not so hot yourself, you know." it had said. He washed the back of his neck. He knew he wasn't the best looking guy in the world, that's precisely why getting the pimple in the first place had angered him so much. He really didn't need the pimple to point it out to him. He washed his left arm. Oxo had never been particularly attractive, in fact he still harboured the memory of a girl on the bus telling him point blank "You're ugly" when he was fifteen. He hated that memory. He hated the memory, and hated that he remembered it so vividly, when he had forgotten so many other memories. He wasn't certain if the memories he had forgotten were good ones or bad ones, since he had forgotten them, but he secretly always assumed they were good ones. It would be just like him to only remember bad memories. He washed his genitals. The thing about that memory that bothered him most was what he had ended up responded at the time. He didn't like to think about it. Oxo washed the crack of his ass. Witty comebacks had never been his strong suit, nor had quick thinking on his feet. When she had told him he was ugly he hadn't known what to say, he was so blown away by the sheer naked honesty of the comment. He responded, quietly, "I know." and quickly taken a seat, his ears and neck turning red, and burning hot. Oxo washed the back of his neck again.

He thought of the memory again, saw the girl's face, her casual indifference, and started to become angry again, after fifteen years. He would love to meet the girl again. He would love to see her on the street, or on the bus, and have something to say back to her. Oxo was mindlessly running the rag back and forth across his chest now. He imagined bumping into her on the street and saying "Oh I remember you, you're the girl who said I was ugly. Well, did I mention that you have bad breath?" No no no.

He slapped the sudsy rag down to the bathtub. What a terrible retort. Even after fifteen years he couldn't think of anything good to say back to her. Say something hurtful, something that would make her think about the comment later, much later. Maybe for the rest of her life. Tell her that she has fat thighs or that she has . . . he paused, remembering. It occurred to Oxo that he couldn't actually remember the girl's face anymore, he could only remember his memory of it. She had blonde hair and blue eyeshadow, that much he knew, but would he be able to recognize her on the street if he saw her now? He didn't think so.

Oxo turned the water off, and stood dripping. He was going to be damned if he would spend another fifteen years wondering if he could have responded more appropriately to his pimple. Without drying, he stepped out of the bathtub and faced the mirror. He wiped away the fog that steam had left on the surface and looked at the pimple. It still throbbed.

-Say something, smartass. he said to it. It throbbed on, but made no reply. He looked down at it, another single drop of pus starting to ooze out of the head. -C'mon smart guy. Say something smart. I dare you.

The pus dribbled out of the head, but still no reply was forthcoming.

Oxo leaned in, toward the mirror, almost pressing his face against the reflection. -Say something you little fuck, I know you want to . . . come on!

And then the pimple spoke again. The pore opened and closed as it said YOU'RE UGLY. then began to giggle.

Oxo stared at it, dumbstruck. He had expected it to repeat its original comment. Standing there, still dripping wet and nude, Oxo began to shake with rage. Again! Again with that comment, and now from a pimple. A fucking pimple. That was the last straw.

He was getting rid of the pimple. The pimple was going to be gone, that's all there was to it. One way or another.

Oxo stalked off into his apartment, slammed open a closet, and began to rummage through a box in the bottom. He thought he could hear the pimple ask what he was doing, but kept lifting objects up, feeling beneath them and then dropping them back down and moving on. Finally, his finger tips found what he was looking for.

Oxo Marx pulled out his father's saw. -HA! he cried out in triumph. He walked into the kitchen, took out the cutting board he had never used, and placed it onto the counter. He turned his head, laid it onto the cutting board, and began to saw at his neck in long quick strokes. In three full slices his head came off from the stump and rolled into his sink.

In this way, the problem was solved.



THE FUNERAL OF OXO MARX

Oxo Marx's funeral was a small, sad affair, attended only by his mother, who was blind, deaf, dumb and not very good at crossword puzzles; his sister Oxa, who was on an oxygen mask, not because she needed it, but because she thought it was hip; his almost girlfriend Priscilla, who was now considering returning to the circus; his landlord, Willy Man, who had found the self-beheaded Oxo and considered him a pretty good tenant; and a mysterious woman in black, whose face was obscured by a thick veil.

The funeral was lead by Reverend Ricardo, who Oxo's mother trusted with her life, and most of her savings. His speech was short, and to the point.
"Let's be honest, people. Oxo wasn't an overly popular man. And, for good reasons. His breath was rank, his teeth had a fuzzy film, he made objectional comments on a routine basis, and besides all that he never liked reality tv. There were many things wrong with Oxo, and the world is probably better off without him. He beheaded himself, which to my knowledge has never been done before, this is itself an accomplishment, and probably his only one, so let us savour it. Uh . . . yeah, that's about it I suppose. Does anyone want to say a few words?"

Oxo's sister Oxa raised her hand wearily.  Reverend Ricardo stood aside as she staggered to the podium, and took three minutes to arrange her oxygen mask perfectly. Then, she cleared her throat, leaned down to the microphone and said: "Phlegm. Formica. Saliva. Bochi. Wang Doodle. Syphon. Thank you. These are. Just some words. I like to say. Thank you."
Oxa shuffled back to her seat and noisily rearranged her oxygen mask.

There was some awkward silence before Reverend Ricardo made his way back to the podium. Just before he spoke for the final time he turned away and took a nip from his flask. "Well," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "I guess that's it. It actually took longer than I expected. Who wants to get drunk?"

The mourners wandered away from the grave, except for the mysterious woman in black, who lingered by the grave stone until the cemetery was empty, then she leaned down and whispered to the stone: "I just like to go to funerals."

Then she walked away, went home, and ate some white toast.








**edited to correct the title

Bump.
Title: Re: The Pathetic Life Of Oxo Marx
Post by: Mesozoic Mister Nigel on November 04, 2012, 06:11:10 PM
Wow... I vaguely remember maybe reading this before, but I forgot about it.

I really like it. Write more, Hoops!