Continually Evolving Memory

When last we left off, the beer had chased me through the straw and through an edible landscape. Once thought to have stopped there, it is now remembered that the beer was not done with me.

Through the desert I ran, the beer in hot pursuit. Over dunes of sand, clumps of dry brush and the ocassional lizard I ran. I needed a drink bad. It was hot in that desert (unlike that one in memphis, you know, the one with the slide) and I was sweating something awful. At least I was until I ran out of juice. I'd drink the beer of course, even if it was chasing me, but someone had thrown a bunch of salt in it! Or somebody's wife, rather. I think he cheated on her but he never did say. But that's not important. What's important is I was damn thirsty. I'd left the nalgene at home with that big moth I found in the back fluttering inside of it or I would have pissed in there and drank that bear grylls style. That was when I was still badass. Too bad there aren't trout in the desert, you can bite their neck and suck out fish juice.

Just as I ws contemplating stopping and letting the beer catch me and do with me what it would, I came across a camel merchant. I gave him my nikes and he gave me his camel and off I went again. God be good man! You didn't tell me this thing lurched like this! My but is near to falling off! What matter, though, we were to the edge of the desert. I jumped off the camel and jumped in the pool of jello two young women were playing in. It was cool so I ate it. Of limes and salt and feet it tasted. Must be margarita flavored. I jumped out and ran out to the street. If you can believe it, a stretched yellow hummer taxi was there and so I jumped in. "Home, driver!" I shouted, and the beer was nowhere to be seen.

wha?


10 char

Sounds like some of my peyote trips....

Laughing Gnome's influence is far too large around here.

shecky said:

Laughing Gnome's influence is far too large around here.

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I was thinking the same thing.

shecky said:

Laughing Gnome's influence is far too large around here.

Click to expand...

I don't know about that, this rambling is almost coherent.

I think the imagery in this post is a type that LG doesn't employ. Notice the line,

"Too bad there aren't trout in the desert, you can bite their neck and suck out fish juice."

Trout, desert, neck, fish juice; all in the same sentence. This is something different.

I know what you all must be thinking. That guy is crazy! You may not believe this but it wasn't that long ago I would have scoffed at such a fantastical story too. "He Lies!" I would yell. But there it is.

I don't have dreadlocks. I'm not even black. Not even a little. But when I woke up last easter I looked like a motherlovin' rastafarian. Scared the skeet out of me when I looked in the mirror. And the damn cramp in my neck from the locks and how I was laying on them! I didn't have time to contemplate the overnight transformation though, I had a staff meeting to attend and I was late. I walked into my kitchen and called the staff to assemble. Rosa, the housekeeper was first to come to attention on the line. Old Grover, the landscaper, was next. His lazy ass is always in the kitchen. Last was Ellington, the butler. He dragged in looking as dolorous as ever. "Staff," said I, "Today is an important day. Today is Easter." "Who the <censored> <censored> are you?" Grover exclaimed in his dusty voice. Rosa said some damn thing in spanish, I never could tell what the hell she was saying. Ellington stood there looking as though he had misplaced his pet chinchilla, though he didn't have one. Rather than explain to them that I was Brian and that some sorcery had befallen me during the night, I ran the hell out of there. It wasn't until I was standing in the street that I realized I was in naught but shorts. And I wasn't about to go back in the house looking like some stranger. Grover was like to stab me with his pitchfork! So I did what any rastafarian looking man in naught but shorts would do -- I walked down to the souvenir shop and bought a rastafarian hat, complete with fake hair. Well, not having a lack of hair, I tore the dirty knots out of the hat and stuck it on my head, as jaunty as I dared. The rainbow weave looked amazing on my new facade, so far as I could tell by the reflection in the used electronics store window. Hey, that radio looks sweet. I'll have to stop by and get that once I have a shirt.

Thats all I remember about that Easter. But the one before I found 8 eggs and won a slap bracelet!

KingBrianI said:

let me tell you about the last time a christian tried to email me:

LEAVE ME BE! i yelled as i tried to run away. but the beer had no ears for me as it chased me up the straw and into my mouth (i didn't realize until later that it was weird i was running up a straw and into my mouth)(i also didn't realize until later that it was weird that i was drinking beer with a straw but then it hit me, i wasn't drinking the beer on purpose, it was making me)(also, hemmorhoids). as i fell from the straw i could feel the beer on my tail, gaining with every step. suddenly i found myself naked and alone. i was blind! oh wait, my eyes were just closed. that's strange. why am i in that willy wonka everything is edible place? it was at that moment, that very particular singular moment that i decided, "who cares!" and jumped into a vanilla icing filled toadstool. i spent hours there, nay, days. days wandering from plant to plant, lawn to sidewalk, eating whatever i happened to stumble upon. and what a delight it was. well, except for when i ate that oompah loompah -- they are much less tasty than their small stature and orangish complexion would lead you to believe. somehow, i had found my way into the top of a gumdrop tree, just bursting with juicy ripe gumdrops. do try the purple ones next time you are in willy wonkas eat whatever you see place! anyway, so i was in the tree and trying to have a bit of a nap, but the sugar pains in my stomach were intent of fighting back. out of seemingly nowhere, a marshmallow sparrow landed on my face and near scared me to death! backwards i fell from the tree. down and down i went. surely i should have hit the ground by now yet still i fell. how strange, i mused, as i found a bit of toffee in the tread of my shoes and popped it in my mouth. mayhaps the ground was further than i thought? no, it only took me a minute to climb up. and that was when the christian sent me an email. i hit my computer because i was mad at the christian but it did no good. and that is why im trying to invent e-smacking.

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For those who are curious, I haven't invented e-smacking yet. I did invent e-kicking one night though. But between being drunk and it not being what I intended, I proceeded to erase it all. The next morning I realized what an idiot I was. For e-kicking would be much more useful than e-smacking. That's why I only invent when mostly sober now. Partially, at least. Well I'm not passed out anyway.

wait...did you say you were drinking beer out of a straw?

It was a Tuesday she left me. A bright, clear Tuesday. A day full of promises it could not keep.

I was young then, and naive. And more trusting than anyone with so few dollars had any right to be. But my Bessy was all I ever wanted. Her father was a holstien and her mother a jersey, and Bessy had the best of both of them. Her handsome spots and full teats were more than any farmhand could ask for. She was always very giving of her milk, never one to hold back from the pail. And what milk it was. Cream, more like. Sweet heavenly cream. I'd oftimes drink it straight from the pail. Or break an egg or two in and some honey. Egg cream, I'd call it, and even offer some to Bessy. She refused, of course, but I'd offer each time all the same. Grass, and grain and hay she preferred, and as much as she seemed to enjoy it, I was content to let her have it.

But it all went bad that evil Tuesday. I had just milked Bessy, as always, and was enjoying a nice egg cream when I heard ol' Donner Swift's chevy pick-up. He was flying down the road as he was want to do, and came flying up our drive in a cloud of dust and hay. Farmer Jack went out to meet him, as kind as you please. He was always a right gentlemen, even with ol' Donner. I could see 'em talking on the back porch and ol' Donner was going on about summat. He was waving his arms and pointing towards the barn and even spit his backa right there on the porch in his fit. Farmer Jack seemed to be taking it hard. He was shakin his head real slow like and lookin at his feet. Finally they both came down to where Bessy and me were standin and ol Donner said, "Boy, go an git me a rope right quick or I'll have yer hide!" I weren't used to bein yelled at so, but farmer Jack gave me a slight nod so off I went to get ol' Donner his rope. When I got back ol' Donner grabbed that rope and started tyin it up in knots. I stood watchin' real uneasy like. Somethin' in Farmer Jack's eyes told me somethin weren't right. Then ol' Donner walks over ta Bessy and slips the rope round her head. "Just what the hell do you think..." was all I could get out before Farmer Jack laid his hand on my shoulder. "Boy, Bessy is gonna be goin' home with Mr. Swift here. To pay him a debt." "No, but he cant..." I couldn't believe what was happening. I had raised Bessy since she was a calf. I'd given her the bottle all through the night after her momma had left her in the field, cold and wet. I'd cleaned the afterbirth off her and wrapped her in blankets to keep her warm. As ol' Donner started leading Bessy off, jerkin and tuggin at the rope, she turned her head to look back at me and I could see the question in her eye. It was more than I could take. I ran to the barn and laid down in the mud and the hay, alone with my misery.

Note to self; next beer swap try to swap with KingBrianI at all costs.

Too legible for a drunken ramble. Too articulate for a mindless mumbling......Me likey!!

Friends came and went, women as well. Days passed and the season's changed. Years went by and still there was beer. Chasing me always, never allowing a moments respite.

And so it was, that long years ago, I stood across the field from my enemy. Behind me, half my kingdom. The knights and their squires and their flamboyant banners. Hired men at arms in rusty armor weilding rusty swords. And finally peasant-folk, convinced by their lords to take up the fight with their scythes and pitchforks. The sun too, was behind us, and by rights it should be. I was the light.

Long hours, it seemed we stood there. Staring across the field at our foes. Savages all. Men given to evil deeds. Their unkempt beards moving as they chanted their war cries. Frosting over as their breath clouded past. And then they were moving. The savages and thier beasts closing across the field. My archers let fly and many of the dark army fell. But still they came, many and more. Still the earth rumbled under thier churning boots. Again and again the archers sent forth their volleys. Then it was time to charge. On I ran, from our ranks, towards the foe. The shouts behind me told me my army was following. And we were among them. Through the enemy I weaved, blocking and slashing, but never standing still. Each turn, every thrust brought a foe down. Blood flew as cold steel sang. The path of destruction leading into the masses very heart. On I fought, ever approaching that black standard. A bone-white barrel marked XXX on a pitch-black field, under which, I knew, awaited my nemesis.

Through his High Guard, I fought. Then through the Master Guard and finally I was upon him. The beer smiled at me queerly, but didn't make to move. Round I spun, with blue steel following, and all the world stood still. All sound was gone, but for the high whistle of blade cutting through air. The blade caught him mid-shoulder. Through bone and gristle it crunched without slowing. And then it was through him, dragging flesh and blood and bile out in a spray as it exited above the hip. The beer collapsed in two halves, the top half rebounding off the lower when they struck the ground and flopping ackwardly backwards. Sound returned with a cry of anguish, taken up by all of the dark mass. Thousands, they numbered and their scream was deafening. I stumbled back from my kill, trying to regain my senses but they were gone, their fallen king with them. Their scream echoed across the valley as I returned to the site of Beer's death. But nothing was left in the mud but blood and bones and pus.

Holy f*in' go**am' sh*t, last time I read prose that fantastic was when I read my e-mail SPAM folder!!! WOw!


Nice..

high praise!

What curse hath befallen me, that so bright the sky was? Lying upon the sand, and seeing nothing. Long hours ago my senses had abandoned the fight. Now all remaining to me was pain and a half-eaten box of doughnuts. Stale doughnuts, at that, and poorly stored. A desert waste was almost as bad a place for doughnut storage as the bottom of Blackfog Bay, and the dust isn't so bad under water.

I was a fresh young lad the first time I sailed into Blackfog Bay. Still akward on a moving deck and without salt in my blood. It lay sheltered behind a row of barrier islands covered with trees tall enough to hide all but the upper mast of a ship. Brigands and smugglers both would frequent the secluded cove, to wait out storms or Navy patrols alike. A thriving village had gone up on the shore. Populated by the roughest sort of cutthroats and thieves, it was the most exciting place I'd ever dreamed of. It was at an alehouse there I was first introduced to the liquid fire the locals called coosha. Fermented seaweed, it was, that was distilled and stored in barrels made from driftwood. The smoky, salty drink would wake a man up with the first sip, and knock him back out with the second, they said. And they weren't far off.

Lies! Lies I tell you!

Curse you and the day I first met ye! You and your infernal brochures! Promising me maidens and riches. A cup that never empties!

Balderdash!

I thirst more than I ever have. My pockets, aye, well, if I had pockets left they would be more barren then the promises you sold me. I sit in my fouled loincloth scraping what I can out of garbage cans frozen with the arctic chill. Rats and alley cats pity me from time to time. Scavengers though they be they look down upon me. They regurgitate morsels, lumps of undigested waste for me to eat. I have no shame left. I prostitute myself to any creature that will have me for whatever they can offer. I could tell you exploits that would make you writhe and wretch, but I digress.

I was a naive lad. Not well to do, but well enough. Restless though. When I met that cursed huckster. But that is done.

Say, may I have that hairball?

You speak of lies and yet, your own story resonates falsely, I think. You make mention of selling your body to creatures willing, and yet, it is beyond my ability to believe anything would have you. What foul creature, desperate and lonely may it be, would stoop to buy the use of a namechanger? A dark and despicable thought. You also deign to say alley cats and rats regurgitate morsels for your benefit? What dark power is this? In my travels, never have I met rat nor alley cat, who would share with me thier fleas, let alone some undigested bit of nutrition. And so, in conclusion, I name you false, and your allegations against me unfounded. Should you choose to soil my name further, you shall find out why I was known among the natives of Easter Island as Namshika Sakito.

OH HO!

You dare to face me again!

Tell me then. Where are the wenches? Where are the riches?


And frankly, where's the damn cup cause this one is empty! Mr. Namfreako Mahsquito!

You shant be so jolly after the melee, when your cup will be filled with piss and vinegar. I promised you naught. The wenches and riches were inventions of your mind, heard in the promise of adventures yet unpassed.

On witnessing such wit and whim from such imbibed, yet worthy men. The diminutive jester laughed once more, and reached to take his pen... A rambling drunk, past time for bed? A mumbling, mindless in his muddled head? The truth be told it's more a rhyme like sung by Zeppelin Led.

Twenty signs on twenty doors showed the way to rooms unseen by the casual traveler. Twenty possibilities, Twenty opportunities for disaster or failure with equal chance. Choose a door, any door. Men, as mice will oftens choose the middle way. The door swung open to reveal the room of destiny. The path to the future in the yet unseen reality. A single room with twenty doors, each clearly marked "Exit". Which door to take?

A gnome, a frolicksome gnome,
I met the other day.
At a junction in his life,
And looking to find the way.
I found him drunk and rambling,
Wandering through a mind as yet unmapped,
And as he pondered the choices,
He realized he was trapped.

KingBrianI said:

The wenches and riches were inventions of your mind, heard in the promise of adventures yet unpassed.

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Now wonder they were so hot, hitting on me, and bringing me beer....

: sigh :

What hotter or more willing wenches, than those you dream up. For they never question your vigor, or allow an empty cup.

ah but such niceties aside...

There we were. Couldn't go forward, couldn't go back. Stuck. How the bloody hell did this come to be? I'll tell you. The captain was a bleeding nimrod and the first mate was a filthy drunk like the rest of us.

We found our barge actually frozen solid in the great canal. Never before had this happened! Who the hell could manage to get their vessel actually frozen in an otherwise moving canal?!

Good old Captain Whosiwahts (could never make it out) could not lead a horny bull to a barn full of fertile heifers!

but fark it. who cares. I.m too drunk. and you're all to deef.

goodnight

I really should search my records to discover what I was drinking in the winter of 08!

It was quite the read!