Sunday Comix (Medley the First)
2000-12-12 - 20:39:20
Todays Sunday Comix are brought to you by the people at Toefetish Inc.
�After cautiously peering through the cracked window that read �John Nelson, Private Eye�, he tiptoed in his leather Birkenstocks across the threshold of the door to find a bullet-filled corpse sprawled on the floor behind the desk, leaking brains and dark blood on the carpet; to his surprise, the body did not have the face of his long-time friend and colleague Henry Jones who posed as �Bob Nelson� during his free time from bouncer duty at Hooters, but the familiar (albeit somewhat now distorted) face of Richard Snide, A German poet and philatelist who had crossed Johnny�s path in the Valley of the Kings where they were both searching for the Ankle Bracelet of Dundas, said to be temporarily in the possession of King Tut, that vicious ruler who was the first Egyptian Pharaoh to hire a man to kill another, and in doing so became �the father of modern villainous mobster-like activities� who spawned a old order of hitmen in Greece that forced the Romans to adopt their practices by sheer usefulness in bipartisan politics, and the Romans consequently influenced the Roman Catholic Church to adopt the practice of paid killing as well, and when the Protestants broke from the Roman Catholic Church to extort new lands in the name of nearly pagan hitmen rituals, the activity of paid murder entered the United States and bloomed, until it was common to see a bullet-ridden corpse sprawled on the floor behind a desk, leaking brains and dark blood on the carpet; which is why Johnny was able to remain calm and go about his daily accounting job in his sixty-four story with a rotting corpse on the beautifully carpeted floor behind his comfy leather chair, as rigor mortis began to set in.� �me two years ago (note the lack of sentences)
The weekend that just passed was interesting, to say the least. I could be found, at one point, skipping in the lounge, wearing pair of white tights, a tinfoil hat, and a CD on each pectoral...singing parodies to the �won�t you be my neighbour� song on Mr. Rogers. And my knuckles, they bled. I haven�t had very much water to drink in the past year er so, choosing to drink Coke instead; and I seem to have dehydrated to the point that the skin on my knuckles is tearing up. I poured Coke in my cuts, and it hurt a bit, but then I liked it up, and it tasted so good...I put Coke in my wounds so I could lick them, I licked them because I had Coke in my wounds...it was a vicious cycle. I used the tights in a mythic realms skit. The written skit was brilliant, one of the better things I�ve written...but the actual skit sucked. Everyone forgot lines but me, and they refuse to sing �The Auspicious Day Part Two� to the Tune of �Tomorrow� from Little Orphan Annie (TM). Once again, my grade is jeopardized by people who care so much about what they think other people think to do anything with doing.
Sir#1: Would you jump off a cliff, if you told yourself to?
Sir#2: But of course. My conscience would have been decided, and there�d be no thought to oppose it...
Sir#1: Let�s suppose a friend told you not to jump off the cliff.
Sir#2: Okay, let�s suppose. Why would I let their conscience influence decisions made about me, by me?
Sir#1: Wel, the friend prubly cares enough about you so they if you did jump off the cliff, they would be saddened...
Sir#2: Can we assume this friend is a she?
Sir#1: Sure...Jon and Dustin are our only real male friends, so the chances are pretty good...
Sir#2: And can we assume she has orange hair, stands about 5�2�, and I�m emphatically in love with her?
Sir#1: Ummm, sure.
Sir#2: With a friend like that, who would even consider jumping off a cliff?
Sir#1: *ponders* Good point.
Several Days ago, Sollertree passed out string to randum persons, to see how they reacted. Jon (good roomate) and I did that today. You�ve gotta try some of this shyt mann, it�s very funni; MDMA even.
Some people claim to walk in their sleep. The most common thing to do while sleepwalking is for one to go to the fridge, as if it were an inborn instinct of the American. But what if the fridge was empty? Should the dog be afraid of being eaten by a sleepeating human? And if that person didn�t have a dog, what would they find to eat in their sleep? Goodnight, don�t let yourself bite...
This was a week of Tuesdays, A week of minetic opposites...of the Goblyn and Luther battling for the supremacy of Mr. Mynd...
Forever and a day ago, Q tried to describe his mental processes on Diaryland. It was the first entry of his that I read, and it was sheer genius. Today, I�m trying to duplicate the hudini�s stunt...This is a list of The Inhabitants*
Mynd: The battlefield, an all-encompassing canvas of a colourless sky, where the stars fall to one horizon, and rise in the other. To The Inhabitants, Mynd is the absolute, the sun and the beetle underfoot.
Goblyn: A well-known person in Mynd. The lord of spontaneousity and chaos. He holds within him everything that makes life enjoyable: red wagons, slugs, impgrins and rosegardens. Somehow, he is older than Mynd; Goblyn was born in a blizzard in early April, 1836 in the year of the human Lord...Back in the past, he walked uphill both ways. He liked the confusion, and now he doesn�t know who he is, and it doesn�t really make a difference to him. Goblyn never believes anything plausible for more than a week, he says and does what seems to him to be whatever feels right at the time; but he does so alone.
Luther: If Goblyn was the king of Mynd, Luther would be the terrorist, always seeking to overthrow his green-skinned mimetic opposite. Luther is as formal as a ball, strict as Stalin, and charming to a tea...Charles Manson mixed with a little Goerge Orwell, a pinch of Karl Marx, and a lot of Macheavelli. Logic is his bible, his blanket and pillow when he sleeps; he believes deeply in B. F. Skinner, and edges toward sXe. He walks mechanically down the halls of Mynd, driven by a deep internal vengeance.
The Sirs: These are the wandering philosophers of Mynd, the children of Goblyn. They have no beliefs of their own, but play as the devils� advocate to each other�s statements all day.
Jimmy: The troubled hypochondriac child that we�ve all created inside us, deep down. The aspect of Mynd that reminds everyone of the homeless, insane, depressed, and confused.
Simon: The Depressed monk, still as a statue sitting in the centre of Mynd. He is a representation of �the thinker� sculpture, constantly thinking and rarely talking, or even noticing the world around him.
Jessica: She is the klepto in Mynd, an embodiment of my trench coat. Sexy, smooth, and charming, she loves to play in abandoned houses and walk into the wind of moving trains.
Me: Blind.
Myself: Deaf.
I: Mute.
Nemo: Who wishes to remain annymous.
Omno: Who wishes to be like everyone else, and wants to escape Mynd.
Fururejason and Pastjason: Me, at different times of my life, influencing my present state of being.
Sun: my romantic self. Often seen frolicking in open fields with Moon.
Moon: *squeege*
*The set of all the little quantifiable things/personifications inside my head.
Sidenote: �I am my own speed.�
