- Joined
- Apr 12, 2005
- Messages
- 21,851
- Reaction score
- 10,441
Bartholomew has been missing all the good drama (cf. Mod Warning: Listen Up! and Goodbye,).
Please. Don't let Our Bart miss out. Let's have a Drama.
And let's make it good -- maybe something like, oh... The Maltese Falcon meets Flesh Gordon in Our Town.
Okay, I'll start.
So I was looking in the neighbours' windows, minding my own business. Out of, like, nowhere, Maryn (in her usual do-gooding busybody way) poked me in the chest with a melon baller and demanded to know what I was doing. I knew it was her by the way she said, "Poet, what the hell are you doing? - Maryn, inquisitive and ruffled".
Then I felt a THUD on on my noggin, and everything went dark. That is, I went dark. I assume everything else stayed the same.
I woke up in a booth at a Waffle House with three copies of Atlanta Nights, a half-roll of quarters, two Slim-Jims, and a coonskin cap. I had a plate of hotcakes and a mug of coffee in front of me. The placemat had a map of Georgia, with Visit Our Other Convenient Locations printed across the top, and cheerful yellow dots stamped across the state, as though it had been strafed by a butterscotch gun. "Convenient... but for whom?," I mused.
In the background, I could hear a Muzak version of Haircut One Hundred's early-eighties chart-topper Love Plus One. I imagined that, years and years ago, the guy who sang Brandy was The Latest Thing. Now I knew how his fans, grown Too Old For That Stuff, felt when they heard the sounds of their youth filtered through The Living Strings.
Other than the toe-tapping melody, I wasn't optimistic about the day at this point, and my watch only had one hand on it. So it was Ten Past Something, which just meant I'd missed the beginning of whatever TV show was on.
And I still didn't know who'd brained me. But I thought I remembered, as I'd gazed at the reflection in Maryn's CHiPs-style reflector sunglasses, catching a glimpse of a rabid chihuahua.
Next?
Please. Don't let Our Bart miss out. Let's have a Drama.
And let's make it good -- maybe something like, oh... The Maltese Falcon meets Flesh Gordon in Our Town.
Okay, I'll start.
So I was looking in the neighbours' windows, minding my own business. Out of, like, nowhere, Maryn (in her usual do-gooding busybody way) poked me in the chest with a melon baller and demanded to know what I was doing. I knew it was her by the way she said, "Poet, what the hell are you doing? - Maryn, inquisitive and ruffled".
Then I felt a THUD on on my noggin, and everything went dark. That is, I went dark. I assume everything else stayed the same.
I woke up in a booth at a Waffle House with three copies of Atlanta Nights, a half-roll of quarters, two Slim-Jims, and a coonskin cap. I had a plate of hotcakes and a mug of coffee in front of me. The placemat had a map of Georgia, with Visit Our Other Convenient Locations printed across the top, and cheerful yellow dots stamped across the state, as though it had been strafed by a butterscotch gun. "Convenient... but for whom?," I mused.
In the background, I could hear a Muzak version of Haircut One Hundred's early-eighties chart-topper Love Plus One. I imagined that, years and years ago, the guy who sang Brandy was The Latest Thing. Now I knew how his fans, grown Too Old For That Stuff, felt when they heard the sounds of their youth filtered through The Living Strings.
Other than the toe-tapping melody, I wasn't optimistic about the day at this point, and my watch only had one hand on it. So it was Ten Past Something, which just meant I'd missed the beginning of whatever TV show was on.
And I still didn't know who'd brained me. But I thought I remembered, as I'd gazed at the reflection in Maryn's CHiPs-style reflector sunglasses, catching a glimpse of a rabid chihuahua.
Next?
Last edited:
Aaaaah! Make it stop! Maaake it stop!
