A watered down tale
Monday, January 07, 2013
THUNK!
Or was it more of a KA-CHUNK?
Giant arrows shot out of the darkness and embedded themselves in the wooden walls behind us, missing us by a hair’s breadth. Where was it coming fro-
“Quit worryin’ about the sound effects, you clod!”, yelled the Captain as she fled. “You can narrate the tale later.”
It seemed like good advice. I followed her, trying to catch up. She could be quite fleet footed, especially when she had an entire army in pursuit. I looked behind. They were on horses now.
We looked at each other. There was only one thing to do.
Leap out of the book.
And there ends the tale of the Lampooner and the buxom buccaneer.
~The End~
“That was a close one,” I said, as we swam away from the book. “I wonder where we are.”
“Seems to be a story set in sea. Mutiny on the Bounty perhaps? Or the Life of Pi?”, replied the Captain.
“So the only chance of our rescue is on a navy ship destined for a horrific mutiny or a life boat inhabited by a hyena and a tiger?”
“Aye.”
“It’s the watery grave for us, I’m afraid.”
blub blub blub
“If you don’t stop with the sound effects, I’ll drown you myself!”, she growled.
I grinned sheepishly. And felt myself being lifted from beneath. I was now riding a dolphin.
I looked behind and saw the Captain sitting on the back of a giant turtle. She looked amused.
“Look there,” she said. “It’s the King of Atlantis!”
We were in an Aquaman comic.
posted by foogarky @ 11:11 AM,
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The Salty Saga of Captain Hooker : Index
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Chapter 1: Captain Hooker and the story of the mysterious, moldy MacGuffin.
Chapter 2: Cap'n Hooker and the mystery of Lesbos.
Chapter 3: Mr. Lampooner, literary superhero.
Chapter 4: Mr. Lampooner does Wonder Woman.
Chapter 5: The Quill of Mockery
Chapter 6: Mr. Lampooner in the hereafter.
Chapter 7: The cavalry is coming!
Chapter 8: Cap'n Hooker and the cowardly Ninjas.
Chapter 9: The Anecdotal Adventures of Cap'n Hooker.
Chapter 10: Cap'n Hooker and the Promise of a Portrait.
posted by foogarky @ 11:03 AM,
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Street War II
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Read the chronicles of the First Street War here :
http://loonylampoonery.blogspot.com/2007/02/street-war-on-festival-of-lights.html
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Street War II
We found ourselves deep within enemy territory. The smell of sulphur was all around us and explosions could be heard in the distance.
Little Goonie had spotted them first. "Hostiles! 3 o'clock!", he screamed and ran for cover. We followed him.
Ducking behind an ice cream cart, I looked up. Goonie was right. They were positioned in the second floor balcony of an apartment.
"Should we make a run for it?" asked Sarge.
"We wouldn't make it," I replied, "They will use their altitude to their advantage."
"We're losing time," he said, "They will be calling in for reinforcements now. We're cornered and they know it. Perhaps I could sneak away, out of their line of sight and get help."
"It's not the time for heroism yet," I replied. I couldn't afford to lose one of my men this early in the battle.
Sarge's eyes glowered, but he nodded.
"I know someone who lives in this street," said Goonie softly, interrupting the silence, "He comes to visit my mother sometimes."
Sarge and I exchanged knowing glances.
"He is quite fond of me," he continued, "I'm sure we can hide over there for a while."
"A safe house! That is exactly what we need. Show us the way, Goonie."
We wheeled the ice cream cart, taking cover behind it and headed towards the safe house. The enemy taunted us, with more appearing on other balconies and terraces. This looked like a group trained in aerial warfare.
"Cowards!" they hooted, guffawing, "Wear skirts instead and tie up your hair in pretty little ponytails."
Sarge stood up, ready to utter a battle cry. He didn't get far before a loud SPLOOSH interrupted him and he fell backwards, drenched and sputtering.
"Holi Water Balloons!" I exclaimed.
"Direct hit!", screamed the assailant and barked out orders asking for more ammunition.
I dragged Sarge behind the cart and wondered if we should make a last stand. Goonie tapped my shoulder and informed me that the safe house was just a little distance ahead. I nodded and carrying Sarge over my shoulders, followed him.
--------------------------------------
The safe house belonged to a man who called himself a grizzled war veteran. He claimed to have fought many a street war back in his day.
"Do you have a stockpile of weapons now?", I asked him.
"Negative."
"I suppose we are doomed then", I sighed in resignation.
"It's not over until it's over", he replied, "I think I may know of a way to get you out of here."
-------------------------------------------
It was now two hours past nightfall. We had waited in hiding for over four hours and then under the cover of darkness sneaked out to follow the instructions of the grizzled war veteran. By the time we were done, we smelled bad but appeared hopeful.
The enemy was now emerging out with their parents, ready to enjoy the festivities. They were dressed in their finest and the fireworks display was about to begin.
Little did they know that what appeared to be a pile of paper from exploded firecrackers was actually a booby trap.
We watched patiently from behind the faithful old ice cream cart, waiting for the right moment.
I studied the proximity of the enemy from the trap. They had to get closer for an optimum trajectory.
"They aren't coming into the blast radius," I cursed under my breath.
"Perhaps it is time for my heroism, sir", said Sarge.
I looked at him. I knew he was right.
I nodded.
He stood up and uttered the battle cry once again. The taunts that followed one-upped the tame insults of the enemy. They gasped in horror, the parents covering the ears of the younger ones. Quite predictably, they charged for him.
He waited till they came into the blast radius and then lifted his hands up in mock surrender.
I lit the long inconspicuous wick that led right to the booby trap.
The explosion that followed was quite blinding. Cow dung flew everywhere, splattering faces and staining new clothes. The enemy staggered for balance, overpowered by the smell. The revulsion led to chaos. In the midst of it, Sarge walked back to our hideout smiling. He looked unhurt.
"I dived away from it", he said, "Cool guys don't look at explosions."
We waltzed our way out.
posted by foogarky @ 4:25 AM,
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Past tense
Saturday, October 22, 2011
I could not fathom why I would wake up with ephemera in my pockets. It became a nightly ritual to wear clean pajamas, taking great care to clear out the pockets of accidental contents (I believed in making the journey into the Afterlife with no identification, if I ever died in my sleep) and yet, in the morning I would find foreign objects in them. On a closer examination one day, I noticed that they weren't merely foreign objects, that were out of place, they were anachronistic rather, out of its place in time. These anachronisms piqued my curiosity. I would find tickets for modes of transport that no longer existed. Why would a man in the 21st century have a steamer ticket for a journey around the world in his pocket, I asked myself. I had no idea. I knew myself to be a person who picked up knick-knacks and assorted doodads along the course of the day, but how did I end up with objects from another time? It was a mystery.
As a man afflicted with considerable lethargy, I did not pursue the matter beyond a few hours of intense armchair analysis. It was when objects that looked strangely unfamiliar to my eyes turned up that I began to ponder about this phenomenon. The writings were like nothing I had ever seen. And some of them appeared on different parts of my body. I woke up one day to find rings on my fingers. They seemed to be fashioned out of some sort of animal hide. I called in a favour at the university and they dated the accessories. It was in fashion sometime in prehistory.
The findings suggested that I was either a time traveller or a kleptomaniac art thief suffering from a rare variation of somnambulism. I ruled out the second theory. My morals were rigid and my faith strong; even sleep would not cloud their effect on my good nature. I now had to understand the mechanics of my time travel. It was not mere retrocognition, where people have been known to have suddenly possessed knowledge of earlier times or places that could not have been obtained by regular means. That was too pedestrian. And I had returned from the past with artifacts. That was something the retrocogs could not do. On the other hand, I could not bring memories back. It was perhaps a trade-off for carrying objects of a tangible nature through the mists of time.
It seemed to me then that this was a mystery that would go to the grave with me. I made my peace with it, knowing that a lot of history was similar. Artifacts would turn up at archaeological digs with no narratives to tell their story. My story would be the same. Portions of my life unknown with no memory of it, save a few objects with tantalizing hints of fantastic adventures through time.
In time, anachronisms would begin to appear directly on my body. Tattoos depicting ancient gods covered the blank canvas of my skin and my hairstyles changed. I wondered what kind of makeup I might have seen on my face waking up if I were a woman. Clearly my nocturnal travels were beginning to get more intimate with the people of the past.
The intimacy continued to grow I realized, as I discovered one day in bed. My wife of many years, a fine woman who was amused by my time travelling, suspected me of adultery. After so many years of marriage she had created a record of my sexual styles, so to speak, and found me now performing in a manner that she was not familiar with. She asked me who this interloper was, who taught me these new (and exciting, she grudgingly added) moves. I had no idea, I told her, wondering if I suddenly started sleepwalking unsolicited into strange women's bedrooms.
These amorous encounters would continue, inexplicably leaving marks on my body even though my wife jealously guarded me. She would coil around me and not let go, until the first light of dawn. And yet, I would hurt from the scratches of a wildcat in the morning. Sometimes it seemed to my wife that the pattern of scratches indicated the presence of more than one woman in my bed. That infuriated her even more but she could not do anything as I shrugged it off blamelessly.
I found a person a few months later who had skills that could help me with my mystery. She called herself a forensic investigator, though she mostly operated in the fringes of forensic science. Her specialty lay in sexual crimes and she possessed an amazing knowledge in that area. She recently started dabbling in historical crimes and soon enough expressed an interest in my case.
I explained my unexplained encounters with strange women who left in the morning without a trace. She nodded, taking in every word. "Sleep with me," she said as I finished my story.
I was taken aback. My marriage was adulterous enough as it was with the unexplained dalliances. Why ruin it completely with a woman from the present?
I refused, but she smiled and said it again. "Sleep with me, if you want to solve the mystery."
And so I did, and she seemed to shadow my every move. Nothing was new to her; she shifted defenses, taking in every assault and launching some of her own. I was outplayed.
She smiled as I lay back exhausted. "I can date your travels," she said, adding that sexual knowledge changed over the centuries, sometimes increasing and at other times decreasing, with some techniques lost to most people forever, only to remain in record in obscure manuals. I told her that my artifacts already dated most of my travels so I wouldn't need her services and this had been a waste of time.
"There's more," she added, pinning me down and mounting me in the ways of a Sumerian charioteer. "Your body has so far brought back objects and art with it. But you now have something that's far more important."
"What is that?", I asked, increasing my horsepower.
"Muscle memory," she replied. "Your body remembers the things it is taught and so far you have performed ancient sexual rites purely from its memory. I can teach you to retain memories in other organs. And soon your eyes shall see, your ears shall hear and your brain shall remember events from a past long forgotten."
I smiled. I was finally on the path to uncovering this mystery and filling up the blank pages of my life.
posted by foogarky @ 1:57 PM,
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The Belt
Sunday, September 25, 2011
I tried it on.
It circumnavigated my waist twice.
What manner of man held up his trousers with a belt of this length, I wondered. He had to have been awfully voluminous. I tried to picture such a man in my head.
And failed.
Pachydermous imagery filled my mind instead. Was it possible that some men could have been made so large? His skin could very well be filled in with two, or even three men of my build. What would I feel when I encountered a man of great girth? I suppose it wouldn't be quite unlike a child looking up at its father. He must have commanded greater respect and authority than a normal sized man.
I wondered about the gravitational effects around this man. What was the strain on the gravitational forces to keep him grounded, preventing from floating away into the black nothingness above? Would he exert his own gravity on people around him, drawing them closer to himself? I could not picture it in my head.
How many cows did he kill, or have killed to obtain cowhide to produce belts of this great diameter? Were animal populations halved during his lifetime to feed his existence? What was his metabolism like? Slower or faster than mine? My head ached from this reasoning.
I felt the texture of the belt in my hand. Leather, they called it in the old days. It must have been at least seven hundred years old. Rather well preserved for an artifact of the those times.
I looked at my own belt. Fashioned out of plant fiber, with a buckle made of oak wood and featuring a lone hole. Every one of us had the hole in the exact same place in our belts. We had to wear our belts at all times. Regardless of what we ate and what we did. We had to fit in.
I envied that man.
posted by foogarky @ 3:06 AM,
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A nondescript tale
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
I am a compulsive eavesdropper on telephone conversations. I have found that watching cloud patterns change in the sky as the hours pass by in waiting at the train station is not as interesting as listening in on the dialogue between a fellow passenger and his correspondent on the other end. The loveliest of women have been wooed, the most distant of star-crossed lovers united and the most tyrannical of governments toppled as I play my part of an onlooker, or on-hearer rather, in the proceedings.
All that would pale in comparison though, to the conversation I overheard this morning as a young man passed me on my way to the workplace. I heard him speak rather loudly discussing his domestic affairs, and as he was right beside me, the topic seemed to switch to his personal hygiene where he observed that he was sweating like anything. In those exact words, as I paraphrased them. And as I shall quote him now, to be recorded for posterity : He said, "I am sweating like anything..." The rest of the conversation went unheard as I stood there, gasping at the brilliance of this literary discovery. This plainly dressed man had, in the course of a banal telephone conversation, created a simile of infinite possibilities. I goggled at his receding form as he walked away, the discoverer of a hitherto unknown grammatical technique. He had constructed a simile that drew an analogy between the subject and infinity. I felt the feeling that the explorer feels as he gazes upon the dark beyond. What could possibly describe the state of perspiration of the young man? Was he sweating like a spy who knew his cover was about to be blown? Like a fat Russian Mafia don spending a Sunday evening in the sauna? Like a rickshaw puller in Calcutta during the tropical summers? I might never know. I knew however, that this was a potent weapon and its usage could break the narrative flow of every book it was used in. I imagined readers shaking their heads in despair, unable to form the end of similes of infinite possibilities, as Harry Potter confidently waved his wand, and cried, "I shall smite you, you who shall not be named, because you are as evil as anything and someone as evil as that must not be allowed to live!" Has Harry misjudged the evilness of the one who shall not be named, the reader wonders, putting down his book, never to pick it up again. The publishing industry collapses, the art of story-telling is lost to mankind and the world embraces absolute realism. "I am sweating", his descendant says, unaware that generations ago turns of phrases existed that brought colour to description and life to stories.
Labels: True story
posted by foogarky @ 10:39 AM,
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Fallout of a recessionary economy : Lampooners take to writing porn
Sunday, November 15, 2009
If you're a fellow lampooner dealing with a literary market that is drying up, here is one genre that is wet with opportunity : Porn Writing.
Porn really brings out one's juices. Creative or otherwise. Use your parodying skills to flesh out characters till they are well endowed, and put more meat into the story. Remember : Perversity and puns go hand in hand.
The greatest porn films stand out in their titular splendour. Adapt a classic film, the recent animated hit Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs 3D for example, into a pornographic script with the title Cloudy with a Chance of Meat between my Balls 3D and voila, you have a potential hit at the BO.
Translate a classic film into another language and the unintended humour of dialogue-meaning lost, or worse, mangled in translation ensures a BO hit. Take the case of the theatrical release of Jumper in Spain. Mispronunciation of the title because of the differences in phonetic pronunciation in the two languages and you've got Spaniards rushing to the theatres to watch Humper. Who would've seen that coming, eh?
When the market does show signs of recovering, a few lampooners will still remain, writing the scripts of your favourite porn films. Perhaps to continue an alternate source of income, or just out of sheer interest. Who knows?
posted by foogarky @ 11:29 PM,
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The Author
foogarky
foogarky is the pseudonym of the fictional construct who battles for supremacy with other constructed personas in the mind of a crazed individual. He describes himself as a man living in a non descript house in Rio De Janiero, Brazil with two dogs and a parakeet.
About This Blog
The Loony Lampoonist serves to parody, spoof and satirize everything that needs to be parodied, spoofed and satirized. Due to the fictional nature of this electronic journal, any anecdotes appearing here ever so often that seem to be personal in nature, would suffer from the effects of conflicting personalities, the creation of fictional events and the inclusion of non existent characters who did not make it to the big league in the author's literary works. Thus, the Loony Lampoonist is also a purgatory for characters and ideas that have missed the limelight.
