Sunday, June 29, 2008

Why I Don't Do Drugs

Inspiration provided by caffeine and irregular sleeping habits. (It also helps if you like Gary Larson, Bill Watterson, have actually read Beowulf, two to three hundred old Russian fairy tales, and enjoy Seinfeld's J. Peterman. I almost forgot. Thank you too, Frank Miller, and innumerable old flicks.) This is starting to sound like an Oscar acceptance speech.

Thus spoke the bard:

...For our hero had eaten leagues of fiery marsh wort, and having an upset tummy, began the journey to the Hall of Tall. In the Wortland, only the Tall possessed the perfect combination of calcium, triglycerides, and potassium phosphate to ease the pain of fiery marsh wort.

As he journeyed over dark mountains and through bright valleys, he came upon a 4.6 headed dragon.

"Ah, hero," the dragon spoke as one who had eaten far too many wort eating Wortlanders, "From where art thou traveling, and whence is thy destination?"

Our hero beheld the misshapen dragon, covered in battle scars and reeking of outdated Worcestershire sauce, and prudently decided to parley. Sitting at meat, the hero quickly laid out a fascinating tale involving a beautiful maiden, three dozen eggs, and a hungry wolf pack. The dragon, being unable to resist a good maiden yarn, was quickly lulled into an agreeable state. This was exactly what our hero needed, as the fiery marsh wort was gradually working its way into his stomach wall. Quickly dividing Sideways Wortland with Diagonal Wortland, the two readily drew up an agreement where neither owned any land. Now parting on friendly terms, our hero was relieved that he had remembered the ancient maxim: Always deal in maidens with dragons, thus you will live a prosperous and land-free life.

Crossing the Great Lesser Mountains--the Great Greater Mountains being impassable until the month of August--our hero came upon the Worst Thing he had ever seen.

"Halt, hero," the Worst Thing quietly muttered.

The worst thing about the Worst Thing is its irascibility. Many brave men, and strong too, have been felled when drawn into an escalating argument with it. Our hero knew this, and adjusting his voice to a quiet, yet firm monotone, he replied.

"From far I have journeyed, through passes too dangerous to describe, swamps rife with little tiny incredibly aggravating blood sucking flies, dark scary mountains, and bright cheerful valleys. I have negotiated my land away with the 4.6 headed dragon, and eaten leagues of fiery marsh wort."

As he spoke in this careful monotone, the Worst Thing began to writhe and beg for mercy. Seizing the moment, the hero quickly recommended a reliable stylist and an exceptional aesthetician. Stunned, the Worst Thing shook his hand and ambled off. Our hero reflected on the wisdom of the ancients who had said, "The Worst Things in the world are soothed with an even tone, a good haircut, and someone to fuss over their nails."

Journeying yet farther into the Wortland, our hero quietly chanted "Battle Hymn of the Republic" to cover what would have been fear, were he you or I. And then, stretching before him to the horizon, the Desert of Excruciating Prose beckoned. Stopping his chanting, he listened quietly, quieter, really-really terribly quietly, and then he heard it.

"It was a dark night, filled with unknown enemies, but Joe felt safe. Why? Because his .44 magnum, Juliet, was tucked against his side. He gently felt the handle, like a lover in a honeymoon suit, and asked himself for the hundredth time, 'Who would have wanted Cherise dead?' His mind strayed back to their last night together, and as he tramped through the flower gardens of miscellaneous thought, he felt icy fingers closing around his throat. Momentarily wondering about the dangers of an overactive imagination, his own wheezing breath snapped him back to reality. Juliet screamed into the cold dark night..."

Were he an ordinary man, our hero would have blithely stumbled into the desert, wooed by the dark sensual metaphors, there to be painfully consumed by Western Harlequins. But our hero possesses a vocabulary of note, and quietly reciting Edgar Allen Poe, and certain passages from the book of Deuteronomy, began steadfastly walking the desert.

Does our hero eventually fall prey to the Desert of Excruciating Prose, thus failing to reach the Hall of Tall, possessors of the ideal antacid?

You'll have to check in later. My brain can only handle so much of this ridiculous writing.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Do it, do it! Leave that glowing comment while your mind reels with the portent of what you just read.