May 30, 2010
WhatTheFlock?!!
As I lie in bed trying to go to sleep, I am haunted by a story from clusterflockstock deux. I shall never repeat the story, but… Holy fuck. Physiologically, psychologically… shit, even ontologically, I am nonplussed. I pray for dreams having nothing to do with that story.
Mouthwash? Yes. Twice.
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Holy flock on a clusterstick… What could you have possibly heard?
My mother used to pull that shit on me, Joseph.
” . . . but no, I’ve said enough. I’ll say no more.”
Really?!
Now we’ll all lose sleep, I guess.
There’s a lot of imagery there, Joseph. I may have awoken last night to night terrors as well.
Now, have I got this right? You are both there and you are talking remotely here about something you both witnessed yet are unable or not prepared to tell us when you could be having this conversation face to face?
Or am I missing something?
Seems to have all the hallmarks of a thread that will disappear up its own ass if we’re not careful.
You have this right, Phil. Think of Josh and me as Marcellus and Butch leaving the basement of the pawn shop in Pulp Fiction.
Except it’s actually R. Kelly’s basement.
I am going to start making things up — and telling them on the Internet!
I live to embellish.
And don’t y’all forget it.
Joseph, I’m trying to picture that – just re-watched that scene to get it straight in my head. Eagerly awaiting the other players.
Sheila, don’t you go fibbin’ or anything. Embellishing is just fine. I just can’t be a doin’ with fibbin’!
Mmmnh, Phil, do you have any sort of handy wallet-sized guide to help me distinguish embellishment from fibbin’?
Hyperbole is in there somewhere.
You bet, Cece! As well as prosthesis and epenthesis and paralempsis and a heap of ways to inflate and add onto what you got, none of which I could define nor explain.
But I can do ‘em.
I could tell you stories.
I wish you would, tell those stories!
I’d have to embellish. Or otherwise alter. Not so much to protect myself as to protect others.
At this stage I’m pretty well beyond damage.
There are many things I could tell . . . but no, I’ve said enough. I’ll say no more.
Gack. Like Sheila, heard it enough.
I will live happily the rest of my life proclaiming that line of bullshit: BULLSHIT.
Could we pass notes in class, Kathy?
I feel a warm glow, which is a rarity in an older man.
Ladies.
Why, thank you, sir.
Sheila, yes!
Phil, I rather like the notion of a warm glowing Phil.
Phil is our hero.