sanemagazine: wonderful rubbish

*Gu-thump*
*Gu-thump*
"What the hell was that!"
"I dunno, it sounds like they're carrying something down the stairs. Well, dragging something down the stairs, anyway."
"Hmmph."
"What?"
"Well, I'm sure that sound was coming from your stomach."
"Ehm."
*Ga-thump*
"There it is again! What is that?"
"Look, I'm hungry, all right? We've been hung up here on these... things, for I don't know how many days, my arms are starting to come out of their sockets, and I'm pretty hungry."
"Oh."
At that moment, the guards rustled the steel door. Since none of them spoke English, they'd taken to shaking the door when they wanted the prisoners to shut up. Which was often, because they were watching Gilligan's Island dubbed into Spanish, which they didn't speak, either. Nor did they listen to Spanish. Well, they listened to it, but they didn't understand it. It's like when your parents or schoolteacher or someone asks the smaller, younger version of you if you heard that, and then they ask if you listened to that. And then, taking it one step further (as parents and schoolteachers are supposed to do, damnit, it's their right), they'll ask if you understand. Now, this sort of thing usually stops about the time the younger and smaller version of yourself gets ahold of a David Hume or Descartes volume or something, at which point it just gets entirely too difficult to talk to that younger and shorter and newly Skeptical self and people stop returning your phone calls and you realise, four years down the road after you've gone through Wittgenstein, Sartre and then settled for someone like Dean Koontz as the fount of all your personal philosophy.
Still, the numerous mangled coconuts and transistors and wires laid out on the table suggested that certain aspects of Gilligan's Island transcended language barriers.

disclaimer:
The one problem with Laurence Sterne's method of writing whilst hungry is that the bulk of your writing tends to circle amiably (and then less so, as it goes on) around food.
And now, we break.

Happy New Year, folks.



		archives horoscopes accessories contacts theatre fables home Search Sane: [A Note on My.Netscape.Com]		Wha Gu-thump Gu-thump "What the hell was that!" "I dunno, it sounds like they're carrying something down the stairs. Well, dragging something down the stairs, anyway." "Hmmph." "What?" "Well, I'm sure that sound was coming from your stomach." "Ehm." Ga-thump "There it is again! What is that?" "Look, I'm hungry, all right? We've been hung up here on these... things, for I don't know how many days, my arms are starting to come out of their sockets, and I'm pretty hungry." "Oh." At that moment, the guards rustled the steel door. Since none of them spoke English, they'd taken to shaking the door when they wanted the prisoners to shut up. Which was often, because they were watching Gilligan's Island dubbed into Spanish, which they didn't speak, either. Nor did they listen to Spanish. Well, they listened to it, but they didn't understand it. It's like when your parents or schoolteacher or someone asks the smaller, younger version of you if you heard that, and then they ask if you listened to that. And then, taking it one step further (as parents and schoolteachers are supposed to do, damnit, it's their right), they'll ask if you understand. Now, this sort of thing usually stops about the time the younger and smaller version of yourself gets ahold of a David Hume or Descartes volume or something, at which point it just gets entirely too difficult to talk to that younger and shorter and newly Skeptical self and people stop returning your phone calls and you realise, four years down the road after you've gone through Wittgenstein, Sartre and then settled for someone like Dean Koontz as the fount of all your personal philosophy. Still, the numerous mangled coconuts and transistors and wires laid out on the table suggested that certain aspects of Gilligan's Island transcended language barriers. disclaimer: The one problem with Laurence Sterne's method of writing whilst hungry is that the bulk of your writing tends to circle amiably (and then less so, as it goes on) around food. And now, we break. Happy New Year, folks.


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