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But there will be a buffet afterwards. And then we're all gonna shake tambourines.

WTF Stephen.

You know I love you, but get a LJ.

FACT: 80% of all socks on this board are Stephen Colbert.

See also newbies.

See also 39% of regular posters.

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[Hoshi Trinity Revisited]

For those of you who want to skip along, I give you my conclusion first, the Hoshi Trinity Revisited -



Yes, those are chopsticks. I suppose I'd better start at the beginning.

Well, first there was a craving for cookies, Russian Tea Cakes, to be exact. You don't actually eat them, you throw them at people and try to hit their pressure points. It's a bit like acupunctural curling, but honest work, baker's work, with the same meaty forearms but looking cleaner dusted with flour and vanilla in the air. Light smooth wooden rolling pins that shift with each revolution of the dough, possibilities.

And then there was Islam, yes, that Islam, and the once again clean scent, white cloth and high morals. No pork, looking a whole lot like my house on a Thursday when I do my laundry and cover myself with pillow cases like some sort of human clothesline until they cool down from the dryer. Love. Yellow light and laundry baskets with holes that everyone on earth (I don't care who you are) climbed into as a child and tried to race like they were supposed to magically sprout wheels or sled dogs. Society today: grimy floor, meat-like deposits in the intestines, empty wallet, survivor with flashing lights, broken bottles in fields deserted for years, bad shrimp. Religion: fabric softener and sniffing. The choice was clear.

Or not, because which to choose? I'm a good candidate, not too many vices and I love large echo buildings with statues. Knowledge, individual worth, respect for the human condition, all very good goals but I have problems: I don't like to believe in stuff. That whole pesky acknowledgement of something as fact, forever. That whole deity sitting patiently while I catch up with uncomfortable questions. Or worse, the endless impatience of hour upon hour spent quiet and searching my inner self, forcing my brain open with no provocation so that I can look and grasp at hypothetical connective straws. Even worse, and say it along with me folks, that whole other people believing the exact same thing thing, no deviation. Snoozefest.

So I've decided to create my own, and this is for you people who blink a lot, more than people should. It's for people who like the idea of digging tunnels underground but are too lazy, for grass sitters, for people who save empty bottles and don't know why, for people who like to open and close clasps over and over again. For those who find great meaning in a line drawn on newspaper. Pen clickers, rock sliders, authority runners, pot smokers, listen close, because I'm about to introduce to you Tommy "Fatty" Langtry, the Pudgy Preaching Pugilist.

Fatty was just an ordinary guy. He worked in a restaurant and swore a lot. He probably drank more than most people should. Fatty had one distinguishing characteristic, though. Although Fatty was a large man, and we're talking when he sat around the house he really sat AROUND the house, you know, although he was a fluffy, Fatty could knock a man down faster than Hoshiko sighting the post-it notes aisle (and that is no exaggeration, I'm thinking about getting help).

Tommy ultimately decided that God gave him a gift and he was going to use it to make so much money that he could be flush with stovies and beer for the rest of his life. How basely materialistic. So he traveled, knocking quite a few people out along the way using uncomfortable gloves and a sideways cracking turn of the head that always disoriented. He couldn't lose. No sooner would he punch the metaphorical stuffing out of one guy than another guy would be there to take the first guy's place, eyes dumb with the sound of the crowd, sitting stupid ducks. And Fatty, on tiptoes and lithe quick vicious, would swing once, twice, and the other man would go over hard (maybe groping for a rope a bit with his left hand, just to save face). Slaps on the back, women swooning, and our hero sitting there sweating, loving the attention. Then one day Fatty had an extra beating of the heart that startled, or he saw one face in the crowd contorted grotesque, or his back was not what it used to be and he started missing the heavy scent of a grease-sopped wood floor. Maybe he got tired of being exploited for what was, in the grand scheme of things, not too much money after taxes and expenses. Got tired of being a commodity. Despite the reason let's just say that he stopped, and he stood and said he would fight no more forever (quite literally) and he walked away out of the spotlight and into the alley, home on his mind and $500 in 20's down his shorts.



Now before you scoff and doubt the point of this endless story, let me just say that Fatty did exist, and you're looking at him above. Yes, feast your eyes on the hero of our tale, the Preaching Pugilist. Not only have I dug up a graven image for you all to worship and liken unto a god, but Fatty himself has agreed to come back from the dead for a limited series of speaking arrangements and teach us all the secrets he learned on this side and the next. He's doing this as a special favor to me, and all he asks is a little bit of cash for a stovie and your soul in increments. For a religion, it's a pretty good deal.

So go ahead Mr. Langtry and take your rightful seat up there on the stage, while I pass this collection tray around a bit to get us started.



Now if you'll all please open your dictionaries please to page 352, the Kangaroo entry, we can begin.

Wonderful.

You write the way your mother speaks.  

That's causation right there  

Yeah, I don't recommend actually reading it  

Combustible engine with waffle-iron parts and a transmittable gravy-train soul. Buying yards of ketchup cloth and zen garden tire space? No, this is easy baked plastic with worms cut out of the mold and multiple piped-icing levels.

Dregs of a floof-haired candy-stuck gentleman with a walking cane and slight rasp to his eye in the tiled walkway of a gym, dressed to the nines in suit and cap made to look like puff the magic dragon by a wee one. American processed but austrian-born, this person was catching slightly on hinges and walking in a manner that upset the changing room persons of stature, none of them slippery on the tiles but falling internally nevertheless. Only one good eye, lost in drywall.

Forsooth and to-go, he steadily creeps and crepes the way daintily, stepping on every third tile and no more, no less down the corridor until he reaches the diamonded and mildewed wall that signifies a very special encounter of the turning kind. Undeterred is his way, his peeping eye and shaking hand knows to guide his face to tilt and glance down the side mute and quiet, drumming scottish war ditties on his soul. A second twirl, back straight heels clicking and cane akimbo as he again makes his slow way down the gradual descent ramp, mouth quivering slightly now, hair floofing quickly now, whole self propelled by the scent of rubber cap spandex nylon and bare feet. A splish, splash, one last turn faster as the shoes scuffle hard against the grit and chemicals, and he reaches the space, dilation and light! sound! purpose finally. Running now, slipping like eggs on toast, and finding the purchase of his purpose on the sandy ledge of the 8 foot mark, head over heels over hair into the waiting arms of the 2:30 aerobic group mid mule kick. Taking 2 at a time, mouth open for chemical hydrating inhalation,  now rolling over the platinum bewetted hair of the cadre and planting his cane in and through a Ms. Betty Dafoe with a resound smack and smart. Having vanquished Ms. Dafoe to the 6 foot section infirm and agape, she of the bright red peonies, she of the cat that yowled, she of 18 woodland lane, a small bent walk and a street crossing away every day at precisely 2:19 pm for Droner, who picked and mutilated her petunias without compunction while she watered and primped them for the picking, having done so he turns his head and hurls one small wink her way with the left as hers widen and run black mascara grooves.

Droner then, mid-air and grinning, teeth hitting water with a slap and peeling back his lower lip at angle as he heads downwards and filter-bound, turning like a small child diver. Far past frantic squat legs and pink pig toes he glances up, drifting slow motion circles. His smile and air bubble fade simultaneously towards his destination as his sodden coat sucks flat into the drain at long last.

                                                                       

***



I want to write more like this later. It's kinda freeing.

That's amazing.  

Dear Bella,

Yes or no?

Also, why is it that my broccoli casserole failed yesterday?

[Hoshiko's Bad Poetry Hour]

<sneaks back in, takes a seat on the couch and pours another drink>

Kind of quiet in here, isn't it? *sip*

Yeah, well... seeing as how you're jsut all so obliging when it comes to hostages, I thought I'd make things a little more difficult. Doesn't seem like there's anyone here to stop me, so I give you Hoshiko's Bad Poetry Hour!

<a few boos from the audience>

I'm wired for explosives.

<silence>

We'll start with a nice easy one... This is entitled Kalamazoo and it's by a real actual poet. Ahem.

On the outskirts are celery marshes
Which only a few years ago
Were as wet as a drugstore in Kansas
And as worthless as marshes could grow,
Well some genius bethought him to drain them
And to add in a short year or two
About eighty-five thousand dollars
To the income of Kalamazoo.

Wet as a drustore in Kansas?  

The Michigan Insane Asylum
Is up on the top of the hill,
And some irresponsible crazies
Meander around there at will,
And they frequently talk to a stranger,
And they sometimes escape, it is true,
But the folks are not all of them crazy
Who hail from Kalamazoo.


<looks up>

Remind you of anyplace?

Well, that was a worthless waste of time. Let's move on to a poem by annonymous. I can't wait, can you?

<cricket>

This one's called Number's Game.

10 years of failed marriage
2 in seperate beds
8 months of constant fighting
400 times you've wished me dead
5 years of depression
6 hours in this bar
8 glasses os whisky
19 shakey steps to my car

<glances up>

Oh Dear... you see what that is? That's what we call foreshadowing, kids. This is not good.

<continues>

2 minutes to find the keys
7 miles home to bed
3 boxes of tablets
not 1 minute of regret.

see you in hell.

What, that's supposed to be BAD? I liked that. I could really feel it, it had a nice ending to it. Hugh, who prepared the bad poems?

<Gets out some burlap bags, wraps up the lurking Barons>

I'll take the rest of that Trail Mix too, if you don't mind.

Are those cameras on? I just want you all to know one thing.

<leans in closer, lowers glasses>

That's not fluoride in the water supply.

<grabs some trail mix and a bloody mary from the coffee table, walks out>

What is this about me not showing up for your show? The invitation got lost in the mail! It was my agent. I ran into some traffic.

Do you have those hostages? I'm not getting any younger.

Holy crap, Rush is deaf?    How did I not know this?

See, this is why you need more nonsense, LMNO. It's educational for all of us.

rainbow<The more you know>rainbow

[Hoshi's Picture of Unmitigated and Glorious Close-Up Pwnage]

Rules? Since when are there rules? Well yes, there were rules initially, but... <cough>

For those of you who need an extra week or two, I'll try to contain my excitement and give you an extra week or so.

For those of you who have no digital camera, well, the way I see it you have 4 choices.

1) Scan

2) Draw

3) Plagerize

4) 2 and 3



You will all tremble in fear when you see the greatness that is Hoshi's Picture of Unmitigated and Glorious Close-Up Pwnage.

Oh yes, it is that good.

I've wanted to do this for awhile.

Anyone want to do a photo contest?

The rules would be:

You can post 3 shots and 3 shots only. Obviously you can post more if you use a sock/troll. The shots are -

1) A building

2) A Macro (close up using the flower setting)

3) A strange perspective. One you don't see often, like the bottom of the couch (unless you're Enrico), etc.


Extra points for nudity, even more extra points for something really... interesting. Winner will be judged arbitrarily, and probably using mob rule. I don't want to leave those getting cameras for Presents Day, so let's say we have until the 30th.

You up?