Well, I suppose you're all wondering about my day. You are? Great. I'll tell you. Today I munched around town wearing an army reserves bum-bag (a tampon, as it's known in the U.S.), which I had stuffed full of chocolate bars and Polaroid™ digital cameras, and frequented (went to) a number of flashy dives. Well, cafés. I decided to meet a different friend for each one, and my first was, of course, Ben. Oh, the ears on that man!
"What's in the bum-bag?" he asked, a forkful of lumberjack cake prostrating in his mouth.
"Well, chocolate bars—but you're already eating cake, so you can't have one!" I snapped. In retrospect, I'll admit it was rather snappier than was necessary in the circumstances.
"Calm down," said Ben, with due cause. "I was only curious. And you're quite right: this cake is plenty enough for me at the moment."
"Good to hear. So't's nice?"
"Very. It would not be hyperbolic to call it delicious."
"Fab."
"Mm," intoned Ben, and we paused.
"Jesus," he added a moment later. "Shall I write it off as déjà vu?"
"It's for the best," I replied. "Otherwise the repetition will get you down."
"But we've done this for a year."
"Well, so's the sun risen everyday."
"Huh?"
"I don't know." I pushed my plate away morosely and fished a chocolate bar from my bum-bag.
"Oh all right," I said, "you can have one." I retrieved another and offered it to him.
"N'anks," he said, waving it away. "I said the cake was enough and I was telling the truth."
I shrugged a faux-nonchalant shrug and placed the milk chocolate & caramel creation back 'neath the zip.
"I could kill you off or something," I suggested optimistically.
"No, that's the easy way out. At this point, only S.C. and J.J. could pump fresh life into it."
"Sigh."
"Christ, don't do that. When people actually say Sigh instead of sighing it, it makes my skin crawl a K."
"Whatever."
"Followed closely by people saying Whatever when their pride's been pricked."
"I'm going to go now."
"Are you? Well, I'm going to say Bye then, and finish my cake."
"You've already finished."
"Not the next piece I haven't."
"Ah. Well, bye."
"Yep."
The rest of my encounters that day were especially forgettable, and I forget them.
The Ivory Pill
Loot and Lilly were busy indoors with the building of a bookshelf that was to be varnished but not painted. Outdoors was an expansive hill on top of a mountain, over which kids ran, and on which nice people sat.
"Is the shelf centred?" asked Loot.
There was a pause.
"Yeah, it's very shelfish," said Lilly.
There was a pause.
"What?"
"It's very shelfish."
"Yes, I heard you, but what are you talking about?"
"It's a pun."
"On what?"
"On selfish. You said it was shelf-centred."
"No, I said, 'Is the shelf centred'."
"Yeah, but it still works."
"No it doesn't. It would only work if I said, 'Is the shelf shelf-centred' or, 'Is the shelf self-centred'."
"It doesn't matter. It's a pun."
"A pun has to work on both levels. You can't say something like, 'Is the self-centred', can you? It doesn't make sense. A true pun should make grammatical sense in both contexts. Like um... um... Like a sailor guy saying that he likes to throw little buoys into the ocean."
"That was terrible."
"It was just an example."
"Well, I still think my one was a good pun. There's no rule saying it has to work in both contexts. Go get a dictionary."
"Oh yeah? Well would you jump off a bridge if they told you to?"
"Huh?"
"I want to go outside."
"We have to finish the bookshelf first."
"No we don't. Let's get the kite."
"But... Oh... All right. Let's."
By the Buckles
Juicy was, as per, sitting nonchalantly on the veranda with some sort of beverage and some sort of reading material. The accompanying day was, while not exactly sunny, wonderful and still, and it also happened to be precisely the right temperature for an extemporisational adventure. Meanwhile, we're unclear as to whether it was a weekend or a weekday, but that hardly matters. Oh and did I mention the mirror? No? Good. That hardly matters either. Anyway, here was Juicy on this specific day, reading and drinking.
"Morning, Juicy" said Harlot, fimbling with his toe and collar.
"Oh, hullo," said Juicy, looking up. "How's it?"
"Oh, not too bad. A bit on the ragged side, you know, but it's bound to clear up."
"Ah. I see."
"Yeah. You?"
"Me? Oh, I'm just the usual."
"Is that a good thing?"
"You know, I think it is."
"Terrific."
"And it's a nice day, too."
"It is! Not sunny, but still and lovely. I really enjoy these sort of days. Could be my favourite."
"Oh, me too. They're marvelous."
"They are."
There was, predictably, a reflective pause.
"Watcha reading?" asked Harlot after it.
"Oh, you know. A lovely little book."
"How lovely! Which one, if you don't mind my asking?"
"I don't mind a bit. Oh, and it's The Lovely Serials."
"Can't say I've heard of that, but it sounds great."
"It is! It's these lovely little stories about these gals who travel around and solve mysteries. You know, magnifying glasses and ancient treasure. Marvelous stuff."
"That does sound marvelous! I might take a look-see sometime."
"Oh, you should. I recommend it."
"In fact, I might just write it down now. What did you say the title was again?"
"The Lovely Serials."
"Ah yes, that was it. Thanks."
"You are most welcome, sir."
"And you are most lovely, madam."
Juicy giggled.
"Silly."
"And proud of it," said Harlot, bursting into a grin. "Anyway, I must be off. I have one or two pressing errands to attend to."
"Oh, you mean the ironing?"
"Now who's silly? But no, my lovely lady. Just sugar-borrowing and that sort of thing."
"Oh, sure. Have fun."
"I'll do my best, lovely. I hope you enjoy the rest of this fine day, and drop in on me anytime."
"I will."
"You will to which?"
"Whichever, sir."
"In that case, I will wave off and see you — or not see you — then. Goodbye!"
"Bye, sir."
Ben the Philosopher
It would, of course, be wittier if I didn't succumb to my prediction and write this, but, having none of my balls land in the vicinity of any better ideas, I shall do it anyway.
When Ben states that he isn't, in fact, a philosopher, he is merely philosophising on the uselessness, philosophically, of philosophy, and, in particular, the existence of philosophy as a distinct practice when in fact it's merely thinking. And everybody, as Harry pointed out in his amiably naïve way, does that. But ignoring such definitions for a moment, the presence of a large, black scholarly robe and haywire hair, not to mention his qualifications, certainly label Ben a philosopher in the traditional sense. And he does spend his days cooped up in a room filled with scrolls and dusty books and a distinct lack of windows. He, like all philosophers, knows that the best way to uncover the hidden truths of the world is to be locked away from it most of the time.
The annoying think about these philosophers is that whenever an occasion arises where you think, 'Gee, I must consult a philosopher about all this', and, in fact, do, you're always left with more questions than you had before you came. Ben, thankfully, is an exception. Last week when I bashed my fist on his grand oak door, and, upon its opening, spilt my worried guts on his shoulders, he placed a gun-shaped hand to support his chin, scratched his skull with the other and, a minute later, articulated a solution, which, I'm happy to inform, was resolute and, ultimately, successful.
Home is Where the Hearth Is
'Twas perched upon the trusty ol' inglenook, a glass of stout orange juice wrapped in my hand, that it first struck me. Love, like that famous rose, is love is love is love. And the same applied to life. Of course, I doubt those staunch fellows at the Oxford would immediately leap to their typewriters and publish a revised edition, but nevertheless this definition, on a philosophical level, is enormously beneficial for those existential ninnies trying to expunge contentment from daily life. And if I can get just one of 'em to see the light—or lack thereof—then I'll consider it a thigh-slapping success.
But why impose my own radical philosophical beliefs on others? Why stoop to Mormon-like lows? Well, the answer is this. If I manage to successfully convert a hitherto unconverted bud, it will fill me with a positively self-satisfied filling of my rightness and their wrongness, and that, for an ego-fiend like me (I don't mind admitting it), is more than enough. As a bonus, it would give me a feeling of power, too, as it—well, her or he—would be a living demonstration of my influence.
Unfortunately, there is a daunting mound of work that needs to be completed before I can let my mind escape to such fulfilling pursuits, so I won't pursue the issue any further just yet. But I will leave you with this potentially life-changing question: have you polished your brain lately?
Milkhill Puppy
I can hear the chug-chug-chugging of fourteen bright hearts in their vibraphonic shells. And all this on a Wednesday. Earlier today, you see, I pushed my bike up the steep hill to the coal field, and found it in a continental state. Whether this property belonged to the bike or the coal field is hard to say, but I can say this, and, indeed, just did. But quibbles in a pile for a moment, the true discovery of my journey was how much fresher the air was up there, and how the clouds, usually foreboding, dark creatures, revealed their winning personalities.
Milkhill, as I affectionately call him, hopped on by three hours after my return and informed me of each errand he had to do, in chronological order, and each gathering he had to attend, with particular emphasis on the enormous amount of hopping he would have to do to get from gathering to gathering, errand to errand, gathering to errand and errand to gathering. I listened as patiently as a stunted man possibly could and then offered him a stiff cup of tea, which, after his accepting and my preparation, he gulped down within a matter of seconds.
When he returned to my quarters, he was in a dishevelled sate and panting heavily. I made a joke about trousers, but, seeing as it referenced a narrative description of his respiration and not anything that he could mentally perceive from the information available, he responded with confusion. I didn't explain.
He was a good friend and I liked him. I told him so, taking extra care to convey the platonic nature of this compliment so as not to scare him off. Then, thinking I'd gone too far with this rather soggy outburst, I punched him in the gut and said I was joking.
"So you don't like me?"
"...No, I like you, I suppose."
"So you weren't joking?"
"No, I was joking. But I was telling the truth to some extent too."
"Oh."
There was a sticky pause. I punched him in the gut again and then left bright red.
From your favourite attention-seeking plagiarist,
Stephan Eggberg.
Martha's Day
Well, as we all know, I'm a positive weasel when it comes to matters of the heart, particularly when they bypass the ribs, but recently I've delved head-first into the published pillow talk of a relatively well-known author and have decided my mind, being soiled, needs a change. So how did these dewey worlds stir such an overhaul in my pot? Well, put as simply as I can make it, they showed hitherto cynical me why that peculiar emotion was, to quote an era, all you need, for this author of which I speak also began on the wrong side of our fundamental plague, thinking it a mere infatuation which had been hyperboled to oblivion by inane poets. This all changed, I soon discovered, when he met his then-stranger, now-wife, Mrs. Roo, and fell hills over mountains into what could only be described as love.
Unfortunately, I didn't have such a miraculous reason to change my morals; rather, I put my faith heavily onto someone else's miraculous reason. But a published author is a published author, and Mr. Roo, if nothing else, was that. And for the moment, I'm going to stick to his words like so much extra-strength name-brand glue, my reasoning being that if I embrace this funny habit of ours face-first, a wonderful woman will wind up in my clock. To this end, I even started opening my eyes fully on public transport to appear approachable to the fairer sex.
Those embittered by its trappings will no doubt find my prattlings to be further proof of my madness, but I'm hoping that those of the wiser persuasion, with their hearts wedged open in an inviting matter (or wedged shut by a hole-filling spouse), will embrace it with all the warmth of a lover and feed its creator's ego. Right now you are hearing the sound of summer.
Most of Al
Well we sat on the edges of each's seat, and we wet for the wait to be whoa whoa-ver, and we et biscuits from a grand jar, whose lid was no more than sheet of glad, and we made a list of things I willn't go into here. And all the while we told each ear that we ain't going nowhere, least of all here. But not that did we each mind about was more on the quaninary side of things for each to tell and all to did well for long. But not how each had mind was going.
And a poorest example of poorest examples was Al's inability to support his firmly. Holed it in pride manner were was various nouvelle quasi men of means and—wait for it—plates o' beans! Each head his meal lain before him like a platter of inspiration. And each had a peach wedged just out of reach. Three rhymes, each banal, and all of the same Latin route, if you'll pardon my Parisian. Well, thirst thing's thirst, and tap's on third. And oh.
Gristly Nest
As is the norm and as was our wont, Ben was a-sharing a pot o' tea with me 'round a table set for two. It had been brought into existence just a few minutes earlier after I struck upon the uncanny idea of pouring boiling hot water into a teapot filled with three scoops of tea and leaving it for a bit. And now we was drinking it.
"The thing is," began Ben, holding his teacup aloft in contemplation, "you need a unique voice; something to separate you from the masses."
"Go on," went I.
"Well, essentially it boils down to—hey, we're drinking tea!—making something different enough to attract an audience while simultaneously appealing to their existing notions of humour and/or insight derived from a wide variety of media outlets."
"That's a tricky line to tread," I observed.
"Indeed it is. But if you believe in what you're doing, then, well, it would help, I suppose."
"But do we even need recognition?"
"Well, that's the thing, i'n't it? Would we feel unworthy if we went unnoticed? Would it feel like a waste?"
"No."
"Precisely. I mean, if we really wanted attention, we could frock up in trench-coats and thrust into the breeze."
"And we do that anyway."
"We do. Thus our real goal in all this should be to go completely unnoticed."
"It's a deal. And this way, we don't need to change our approach one bit."
"Exactly right, Hump."
It was a rip-snorting success.
The Lamb Ran Away with the Clown
Half a tin of oil, I've noticed, is all it takes to convince a flabby circus to pull the pegs, which is something, believe it or else, that happens with frightening regularity—if I can be so mindless as to employ that phrase. Now, I don't suppose this is the kind of going on that goes on around your neck of the woods, but down here where the grass is dust, it's as common as complacency. Every so Easter and every so Christmas and every so anything, that disgusting bulb of a truck, with its vertebrate of grubby trailers and motor-biking masters of ceremony, rolls red into town and sprays obnoxious waves of sound 360 and 247. And upon witnessing any of their assaults on the senses, I lift my leg, let out a great sigh and reach for the nearest oil canister.
The problem is, of course, that they never get the picture. No matter how many times I combat the fax machine or mail them a frame, they still seem to get the impression that someone in our earthly pit is positively four feet off the ground at the thought of their arrival. Now, I don't pretend to speak for everyone, but I think I speak for most of them when I say that nobody here wants those unwashed peculiars fumbling about with rubber balls and the backs of elephants in our humble pillow town. And yet despite this, I seem to be the only one who bothers to oil them out whenever Mr. and Mrs. Backward light up with the bright idea of returning to a profitless place of unwelcome.
Though shooing them off is a relatively simple task, there is always a significant amount of debris left to sort out. And the war raged in my guts usually falls to the side of the broom and I have to do it all myself. On average, this takes around two days to complete, and by the end of it I'm as flat as a balloon manufactured with a hole in it, and twice as useless. And it takes the better part of a week before the gusts can pick me up again. I'll probably die in about five years.