Day 19: Ernest Trabone
As i lay contemplating my ingestion at the hands of Ye Lad of Fort Frown, Pallid Lamb of Frown Pasture, I realized that I was alone. The lad handers of my recent sand handing salmon hand, sand in hand astride we strode, by the sea, he and I, that lake of common blindungsroman we swam, swam handing our salmondary hand lands. He was gone. Tyra Banks was gone. These bland hands now were blaming my glands for handling themselves so poorly. By passing out, or phase-grazing on the green grass of frowning space faces, my heart was sliced by those garden variety blades.
The frownlife in which i wallowed was insular to my identity. THere was no compatriot who could share this banal imprisonment within bowels of the frowny face. These bedsheets, the doctor, the hospital, toronto, canada, metropolitan earth, it was all a psychosomatic symptom of a disease of being eaten by, again I state, a frowning face from between the galaxies. Nuts.
They say that the only way you become utterly and hopelessly corrupted by the banality around you is by engaging with it. The moment you imbue it with enough value to warrant your manners particles, the moment you granted it license to thrill, thrill no more that is.
People were often drawn into the frownlife, starting innocently enough by responding to gateway comments like “hot enough for ya?” and “elevator’s really moving up!” and “what’s up with these Vapsicorical Calcadorians and their damn phrase inducers?” (That last one being most ironic, since a Vpasicorical Calcadorian was a being that subsisted on the banality of observational phrases. They tended to cluster around white people and to a lesser extent, van people. Whenever anyone, anywhere, simply stated exactly what was going on around them (eg. it’s sure raining, the team has won the game, economy’s not doing too well, lots of people in this parade eh?, etc.) they were able to reproduce. That wouldn’t be so bad if their feces wasn’t the food for interphasic lips, the lips that kiss in twelve dimensions at once. The Vapsicorical Calcadorians developed a simple device that in the late 20th and early 21st centuries was able to induce phrases at alarming levels, leading to global warming. Some people at the time thought that the rise in global temperatures was caused by cars! Imagine that! Phrase pollution is infinitely worse.) Once such a phrase was engaged with, the engagement beam between the participants of the communion was used to transmit the eggs of further banalities. Thus it spread, from host to host. Only the truly heroic had the will power to refuse to return a meaningless “yep” to some observation about the bus stopping and starting jerkily. Eventually, everyone gave way, and the plague took them over.
Well not me. Not this kidney-possessing organism! Not this earth man of the future Canadarmok! I just had to hold on until i figured out how to return from frownlife into the normalverse, into the vacant arms of vacuum packed space, hoard of nothingness.
From my hospital bed i could clearly see the moon shining its evil face down on this doppleganger of early 21st century earth. Ahh the moon, moony old moon. Within two thousand years, all the earth’s gold would be there. The economy would escape the chains laid across its back by the governments of the world, and flee to the moon, to observe the world shrink into a dark age. THe economy and its empire on th emoon lunarized the whole solar system. It was the lunar system in those dark days, the sun reduced to a mere desk sergeant. Ride that desk into retirement, the moon used to say. Ride it all the way to florida, old timer.
The moon’s a real jerk, i hate the moon.
And then moon vanished right before my eyes. That asn’t supposed to happen. THen the stars, one by one, then by the dozen, whole fields of blackness absorbed them, packets of dark velvet sky spreading like oilspills over the skyponds of Valvarot.
The frownworld was beginning to give way. It knew i knew, and it wasn’t waiting for me to acceed and give up my personality for it to digest. I was an undigestible, and it knew it. I was the equivalent of gum. Worse, i was the equivalent of a grand old egg, from Eggmund Fraser’s University of Nondigestibles, all shiny with lardbodies and a side of framps.
There was only one solution. I had to convince the Pale Frown that i was food, that i was without imagination and pride. I had to engage my doctor on some recent headlines or some other such nonsense. Surely, with the aid of my vast interior library of affirmational teeth i would be able to awaken all my giants within and regain my individuality. By subsuming my personality in the gentle palpations of the oceanic sands of external aid, i would recreate my real self once i had learned to escape… i could give in.. and still be me…
i could give in…
i would still be me…
i could give in….
“so. Obamas having trouble with that healthcare.”
to be continued…
No responses yet