Cap'n Hooker and the cowardly Ninjas
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Now here's a question that's been bothering me these days : Which are cooler? Ninjas or pirates?
Of course, considering that I've got a pirate in my employ, I can't answer the question objectively. And to make matters worse, the said pirate Cap'n Hooker is so freakin' cool, a ninja would have be to pure awesomesauce to top her in awesomitude. Now this leaves me with only one option. Create my own Ninja.
"Oh, pooh pooh Mr. Lampooner. Ninjas be scurvy cowards", says the Cappy, when she hears my idea.
"Cowards?", I reply, shocked.
"Aye."
"How would you know that?", I ask, incredulous.
"I knows that 'cause I 'ave faced 'em in battle."
Have you ever felt as a writer that you just don't know enough about your character? This was one of those moments.
"You have fought with Ninjas? That's so freakin' cool!"
"This cutlass, me lad, first tasted Ninja blood when ye were still in yer Ma's tummy, I'd reckon."
My eyes go starry. Cap'n Hooker seemed to have lived a life that every woman (or even a man) could only have dreamed of.
"Tell me something about these Ninjas", I ask her.
"Well, 'twas in me wild younger days", she says, as I stagger (wondering if her current life was tame in her view, what God forbidden activities could she have indulged in her youth), "I be sailin' the seas of Nippon plunderin' the ships of the Emperor's Navy. A cowardly fool was he, sendin' Ninjas by the boatloads to put us to sleep with the fishies."
"Ninjas on boats?", I interject, eyes widening.
"Aye. Ninjas that were said to swim faster than 'em fishies 'emselves. They sneaked in upon me ship in the dead of night and captured all o' us. Everyone except Cap'n Hooker, of course. I stood there, me cutlass wavin' around deflectin' the shuriken they flung at me. Until the Ninja commander 'erself came to face me."
"Ninja commander?"
"Aye. She was shadow born, I tells ye. I could only see her eyes, white as the pearly residue of oysters, in the black of night. Ye haven't fought a fight until ye have faced a foe invisible to the eye. Me cutlass, blind as I was, waved aimlessly, findin' no target."
"Oh, that must have been terrible!"
The Cap'n nodded. "However, by providence, we got ourselves a thunderstorm. That be right. A thunderstorm!", she said, guffawing, "With bright bright lightnin'. The commander lost her shadowy camouflage. We were even keeled now. She did fight bravely, her ninjato matching me cutlass swing for swing, slash for slash, but your Cap'n was the better fighter. As I went in for the kill, she put her hand into her bosom, drawing out a bomb and dropped it on the deck."
"And went POOF?"
"Aye. Disappeared in the wink of an eye. That's why I call 'em Ninjas scurvy cowards. They ne'er fight to the death."
I could have told the Cap'n that disappearing when the odds were not in their favour was part of the strategy of the Ninja, but she wouldn't see reason in it. And that was what I liked in that loud woman. And that is why I side with the pirates every time my mates bring up this age old question. Pirates are cooler, bitches! Agree with me, else I keelhaul ye!
posted by foogarky @ 5:56 AM,
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The Life and Death of Erasmus
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
The carrier of X couples with the carrier of Y.
I am begun.
I am conscious.
I feed from the cord.
At the end of the third trimester,
I slide down the birth canal.
I emerge.
"It's a boy!", exclaims someone, but I cannot comprehend the meaning of the words. My language processing ability has not developed yet.
I cry.
I suckle.
I sleep.
I wake up.
I sleep.
I wake up.
I look at Nourishment. My mind forms the word Ma.
I look at Safety. My mind forms the word Pa.
I am named. I have an identity. I am Erasmus.
I grow.
I skin my knee.
I ride a bicycle.
I touch myself.
I grow.
I become aware of the other sex.
I fantasize at night.
I return to reality in the morning.
I meet a girl one day. I give her a flower.
She takes my flower. Our stories have overlapped.
I kiss her. I have not learned words to describe the feeling.
She trusts me.
She loves me.
Do I love her?
I make awkward love to her.
I return to her bed every night for a month.
I dump her.
I play football.
I join the team.
I enter my prime.
I womanize.
I sleep with a young lady. I sleep with her best friend. I sleep with the best friend's sister. I continue the cycle until there isn't a bed left in this town that I haven't slept in.
I fornicate. I impregnate. I will remake Man in my image.
I give up my carnal desires.
I become autodidactic.
I contemplate the mysteries of Life.
I begin my school of thought.
I travel the world, offering answers.
I am hailed as a saint, an avatar, a reincarnation.
I act as a conduit, offering service to a postal district that lies under the jurisdiction of no earthly post office. The abode of God.
I am blessed by He. He commands me to build a holy shrine in His name. A shrine that will cost the lives and beliefs of millions. A shrine that will show them the one true God.
I begin construction.
The Shrine causes unrest amongst followers of other beliefs. I try to quell the unrest. Be patient, my flock, I tell them, God will descend upon us in all his glory.
I get stabbed in the back, two days before the completion of the shrine.
I turn around to see the face of my attacker. I see the commonality of the common man in his face.
I wonder how I have wronged him to deserve this fate, but I cannot form the words in my throat, blood rushing up through it.
I collapse on his shoulders.
I am unconscious.
I remain unconscious.
I lose consciousness.
I am ended.
posted by foogarky @ 11:54 AM,
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The Deus Ex Machinist : Origin
Sunday, August 17, 2008
In the beginning God created Man.
Man looks down at what will centuries later be called his privates but is now unhidden, unadorned and uneuphemised and asks, "What do I do with this?"
And God creates Woman.
Man lays Woman. Lays her again. And again. And again. Until he tires of it.
"I need a new Woman", says he, "Where do I find a Woman of fair bosoms and tears of spring dew and toenails of pristine cuticle?"
"In fiction", replies God.
And Man creates literature.
And does a bad job of it.
"A story is like a well oiled machine", explains God, "It needs all its parts running in smooth unison."
And God gives Man a tool. A tool so powerful, that it can drive narratives forward. A tool also so dangerous, that it can drive plot holes through a story.
A tool, so disgusted at being used to fix inferior plots, that it decides to question its existence.
"How can I really help Mankind?", it asks itself and realises that the greatest story ever told, being told and will continue to be told, the Story of the World, needs fixing. "Why must a Man be born deprived of his sight, unable to see the beauty of a solar eclipse? Why must a Woman be born deprived of hearing, unable to hear the roar of a majestic, and hungry lion? If the players do not play equal parts on this stage, then this story is flawed."
The Tool begins to weave the tale differently.
The panicked populace of the coastal areas look on in wonderment as the giant waves of a Tsunami are flushed down a gargantuan commode that appears in the middle of the sea.
A meteorite, hurtling through the atmosphere, goes through a humongous hoop in the air and is not seen again, to the amazement of astronomers and the dismay of doomsday harbingers.
A raging flood finds itself drained away into a gigantic manhole that appears out of nowhere.
As news of these miracles spread, a furious God summons His Tool to His Presence.
"How dare you change history?"
"I am righting your wrongs", replies the Tool.
"This is not a perfect world. And it shall remain that way."
"Why?"
"I have my reasons"
"Is it because of your Masters?"
"How do you know about that?", asks God, His rage causing a plague in a third world country.
"I have my ways. And I shall no longer be your tool. For long you have operated me for your devious purposes. No longer. For I am now the Deus Ex Machinist and I shall rewrite the world."
Realising that the Deus Ex Machinist had woven himself into the Story of the World, God could not uncreate him. He would live but he would have to live by the laws of the world. The laws of physics would be his undoing as unmaking reality can cause anomalies in space-time.
"Anomalies are unpleasant things, Deus Ex Machinist. Unpleasant indeed."
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posted by foogarky @ 1:32 AM,
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Erasmus and Postlethwaite
Friday, August 15, 2008
I didn't hear him come up the stairs.
"How long have you been cooped up like this?", he asked, looking around my room, frowning. Boxes of pizza lay strewn around. An odour of unbathed human hung in the air.
"Oh, I don't know. A month, perhaps?"
"A whole month? Are you writing a novella now? Short stories don't keep you away from human contact for so long, do they?"
"Well, I'm not sure what this is turning out to be", I replied, pointing at the stack of papers on my desk, "It started as a free writing exercise and now I can't seem to stop. I worry that a change in scene might break the flow and this story might never make it to The End."
He came up to the desk and looked at the unfinished manuscript. "Boris? That isn't a very interesting title at all. What genre is it?"
"Erotica"
His eyes lit up. He turned a page over eagerly. I stopped him.
"You shan't read it until I'm done"
"Aww, that's cruel!"
"Well, I haven't got to writing the good bits in yet. At this point in the story, my fingers typing it in as we speak, the protagonist is just about to meet the girl on a train."
"You've been writing for a month and you haven't put in a saucy scene yet? What kind of erotica writer are you? Good erotica always begins with a bang, if you know what I mean."
I laughed. "This is my first attempt, Post. Go easy on me. There will be saucy deflowery, I assure you."
"Speaking of deflowery, we're going to a party tonight", he said.
I looked up, surprised. Did he not hear what I had said? I was in the midst of a creative flow, nay, a creative deluge. Stepping outside the familiarity of my badly lit room might interrupt my trains of thought, might cause subtle changes in my current writing style. I am a writer capable of writing in a multitude of styles and I've found that I can maintain a style only for one continuous bout of writing. That was why I favoured short stories that I could complete in a day. This was a story of a longer length, probably a novella or even a novel, and I wasn't sure how I could complete it without becoming a complete recluse.
Post rubbished my theory. "What rot!", he exclaimed, "I haven't heard of such a thing. Writers lead active social lives, you know, though there are exceptions, I grant you that. If you started work on an epic, you'd be telling me that you're going to go off the radar for a couple of years."
"Well, if it was an epic, then-"
"No more of that out of ya. We're going to this party. The erotica can wait. We've got real girls waiting for us, for God's sake.
So, I gave in and let him pick my clothes. He did not trust my fashion sense. "Non existent", he called it, reminding me of the various sartorial faux pas I committed in his company. I sighed. I did not know they were faux pas until he brought it to my attention. But I was thankful to him for that. We had always been like this, from our younger years. We were a good looking pair, Post more handsome than I. He devoted a lot of time to grooming himself and when he was done, grooming me, because I wouldn't do it myself. "You need to look good when you're out with me", he said, when I asked him why he bothered with my appearance, "otherwise you would cause a subtraction from the sum total of our collective beauty."
Our collective beauty must have been a big number tonight, if beauty could be measured on a numeric scale. Post had outdone himself. The young man in a dapper suit on the other side of the looking glass was not me surely. Or was it? I turned to look at Post. "What vile witchery is this?"
He laughed. "That, Erasmus, is the magic of fashion."
--------------------------------------------------------
We stepped in confidently through the door as our names were announced.
"Erasmus and Postlethwaite, ladies and gentlemen."
We bowed.
A lady came up and smiled at Post, her corset artificially enhancing her curves. I tried hard not to stare at her bosom.
"Oh, Erasmus is here too. To what do we owe this honour?", she said, finally noticing me. The way she was looking at Post, and he at her, I would have to be blind to have not noticed it and suspected an amorous arrangement between them.
"Ask your paramour", I replied, "He dragged me to this gig. I wouldn't have expected to see you fit so well into these expensive threads though, Portia"
"How did you know he was my-? Oh, he must have told you. He tells you everything, doesn't he?"
"Actually he did not. The spark between you the two of you is quite bright, I'm afraid. Bring you two together and every man, woman and pet in this house will feel the heat. Why, the house itself might come burning down."
She giggled. "I look nice in Victorian attire?", she asked, puffing her chest out.
I reddened. "Yes", I managed to mumble, and went looking for a drink to steady my nerves. Post met me midway and asked, "How long has it been?"
"How long has what been?"
"How long has it been since you've er.. been with a woman?"
"I don't know. Maybe since I took up writing?"
He looked shocked.
"Well, you know how I coop myself up for days on end when I'm writing. I have had no time for women."
Post mouthed a silent prayer to the Lord. "Forgive him, Father, for he knows not his sins. Repent he shall on this night. Amen." And then spoke to me. In a tone that I have not heard him use before. "For this crime, you will be punished with the burden of eternal fornication. Now, go sow your wild oats!"
And I went. Post did have a flair for drama, but he was right. It had been a while. I surveyed the fauna. A lioness presented herself, with a mane of burnished gold. She looked about ten years older than me.
"Nice evening, isn't it?", I said, approaching her. The personification of my libido groaned and kicked me in my reproductive parts. "That's not how you do it!", he screamed.
And he was right. She made me get her a drink, chatted for a while, and soon excused herself away to the washroom.
Favouring a more direct approach, I went up to another lioness and introduced myself. "Hi, I'm Erasmus."
"Hi, I'm married', she replied, not bothering to actually show a wedding ring.
"Oh, that's nice", I replied, "So who do you do for a living?"
She looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"The gentleman who pays for your upkeep. What is his name?"
Her response was unladylike.
I was beginning to lose hope. I sat down, dejected at being rejected. I must have sat there for a while, drowning my sorrow in drink, because I hadn't noticed that I wasn't alone.
The cohabitant of the couch was a young girl, probably a couple of years younger than myself. She was not as well endowed as the lionesses and if it looked like that I had hooked up with her, Post would probably laugh me to death. "Erasmus going out with a younger girl. Who would have thunk that. Poor desperate Erasmus." The mocking wouldn't end, I was certain.
Her voice interrupted the mocking voices in my head. "So, what do you do?", she asked.
I was tired of that question and the questions that followed.
"I am a milkman", I replied. Now why would I say that? Wasn't I a writer? Was the alcohol already slowing down my cognitive processes? I had no idea.
"A milkman?", she giggled, "No milkman would look as suave as you do."
"Oh, I don't milk farm cows like them ordinary milkmen. I am a milkman of a higher order."
"What do you milk then?"
"I milk the cow in my head."
"You've got a cow in your head?"
"Yes. The Cow of Creativity. I milk her for ideas."
"Ah, you're a writer!"
"Guilty as charged."
She took the glass out of my hand. "So, what does this cow look like?"
"Let's see. Four legs, a hump and two horns. Like a regular cow. What did you expect to hear? Now can I have my drink back?"
"No. And I refuse to believe your cow of creativity looks like a regular cow. Have you heard of Kama-Dhenu?
"Yes, the most sacred cow of the ancient Hindus. Now, can I have my drink back, please?"
She put the glass to her mouth and gulped it down. "You're not to have another drink. Until I'm done talking with you, anyhow. Now tell me, you know Kama-Dhenu is a cow that gives her master whatever he desires. I think the cow in your head is similar in a way."
I sighed. I would have to tell her what she wanted to hear, to get rid of her. It sounded like a simple plan, but would my numbed mind make it difficult?
"No, there ain't any similarities", I replied, and then wondered why I was disagreeing with her. Wasn't getting rid of her the plan? "The cow in my head has no religious significance. She lives in the astral plane. Every time I sit at my desk and take up my pen, I go into a trance. I open my eyes and I find myself in the astral plane and my cow is waiting for me. I take a bucket and sit down-"
"Doesn't an astral plane indicate a religious significance? Or at least a spiritual one?", asked she, finding a flaw in my explanation.
"Very well, the cow does have a religious significance. Now, I'll thank you to not interrupt me while I am talking. As I was saying, I sit down, place the bucket under her udders and start milking. I must be careful though. If I milk too much-"
"The cow won't have any left for her calf?"
"No. If I milk too much, I would be overwhelmed with ideas. I wouldn't be able to string a good story out of so much good milk, er material. Oh, would you like to hear about the methods of the other writers in the astral plane? I see them at times."
"Do they have cows of their own too?"
"Well, some of them do. The others have other methods. I've seen a mysterious writer who can summon infinite monkeys and typewriters at will. With a snap of his fingers, the enslaved monkeys start typing, generating an infinite number of stories. He chooses the best one and leaves the plane. And then there is the lady who lays down before a giant phallic symbol, carved out of wood, and begins her ritual. When she's done, the symbol throbs and -"
"Yes, I get it. I would like to see your cow, Erasmus."
It was a strange request. Didn't she know the cow was in my head? Realising that I was going to be stuck with her all evening, I complied with her request. Picking up a paper and pen, I asked her to come out to the garden.
Her name was Orfelia, she told me as we walked out, and she was an assistant to a naturalist, a famous one at that. He was on the verge of a breakthrough, one that could shatter the known laws of nature. She spoke of wonderful creatures, both beautiful and bizarre, that she had seen on her journeys. Of strange tribes, a matriarchal tribe that was shocked to learn about the gender equations in the rest of the world. I realised that she had made me talk at first and I did not know that she would be so intelligent if I hadn't asked her about herself. I listened to her tales, no doubt true, but tales that I could romanticise for my fiction. Before we realised it, an hour had passed and we hadn't got around to milking my cow yet. We laughed.
I put pen to paper and wrote a few lines. I found myself continuing my story, Boris.
Boris boarded the train and saw the girl. She was reading The Origin of Species, her hair falling over her shoulders, just the length he liked it in women.
I closed my eyes and tried to visualise the scene in my head. As my eyes shut, I noticed Orfelia looking at me and following suit. However, I found myself not on a train, but a farm. In front of the whitest cow I've ever seen. Orfelia was beside me. She was holding a bucket out to me, smiling.
I opened my eyes. Orfelia's eyes were still closed. She was still in the farm. She looked lovely in the moonlight. I kissed her on the lips. Yes, it had been a while. And it felt good. She did not resist. My fingers went over to the buttons of her dress. She still did not resist. Her eyes were still closed. I closed my eyes. I didn't know where we were, in the garden or the farm, but it was a lovely place.
Boris kissed her on the lips. She tasted like fresh strawberries. They were alone on the train. As he unbuttoned her, he noticed her name, written on the inside of the book. Orfelia.
I came out of it. It was like a strange dream. I sat up and wrote, filling up the paper, both sides. This is what I had been struggling with when Post came in and dragged me out to this party. Writing the intimate scene. It had been too long and I could not write a scene of intimacy in a natural manner. And now, I had what I wanted. I looked at Orfelia, sleeping bare beside me on the grass. She awoke, looked over my shoulder and read what I had written.
"Orfelia?", she asked.
"Yes. Boris has found his true love."
"And so has Orfelia. I love you, Erasmus."
"I fear, Orfelia, that only Boris has fallen in love with you."
She did not understand my words.
"Don't you love me, Erasmus?"
"No."
"Then what of the moment we shared now?"
"That was a moment you shared with Boris on the astral plane."
She shook her head. Her eyes went moist.
"Then who do you love, Erasmus? Is there another lady who has won your affection?"
"I love Post."
"Postlethwaite? Does he not have Portia?"
"I have always loved Post and no one else. I have had many women and will have many more. But I love Post more than I could love a brother."
"Why is he so important to you?", she asked, crying.
What could I tell her that would stop the tears? That would ease her pain? Post and I were orphans. We shared a bond stronger than brotherhood. Someday, a lady might come along who would make me feel like I was in love. Orfelia was not that lady. I could not tell her that, so I walked away. I had a story to finish.
posted by foogarky @ 12:16 PM,
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The cavalry is coming!
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Read the origin of Mr. Lampooner, literary superhero in chapter 1 of this epic saga here :
http://loonylampoonery.blogspot.com/2008/06/mr-lampooner-literary-superhero.html
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
If I may be allowed to break out of character and speak as the author, I must confess that my imagination has been failing me with a worrying regularity now. I find it difficult to concoct a situation to bring Mr. Lampooner, literary superhero back into the world of the living. Am I faced with the most difficult decision that a writer must take?
Is it time to kill off my titular character?
I lift my pen, with tears in my eyes. It will be quick and painless, I assure him.
Painless? Can death really be painless? What of the pain caused to the dealer of death? I am reminded of Proffie.
Poor ol' Proffie. No character born on paper has died a death so horrible.
'Twas a long time ago when I was a young lad. My mother had given me my first pencil.
"What can I do with this, momma?", I asked my mother of superior intelligence.
"Use it to change the world, son."
I went back to my desk. I would write a story. A story about a lad called Proffie. The greatest lad that ever lived.
I put pencil to paper. It was an exhilarating feeling. I felt like God. I wrote the first line,
Once upon a time, in a distant land, there lived a lad called Proffie who-
And I realised that writing was a boring activity for a young boy. I positioned the eraser over the line and with one swipe the paper was blank again.
Poor ol' Proffie. Erased out of exisence. Literally.
No, Mr. Lampooner. You shall not suffer a similar fate. Hang in there. The cavalry is coming!
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the other hemisphere of a fictional world, strange sounds are heard early in the morning.
"Whinnying? At sea? Seahorses! Every man for himself! The Seahorses have been angered!", screams the lookout, a religious God fearing man and a believer in the supernatural.
"Seahorses are fish, you ninny. This is the neighing of land horses. Horses that have cavalry uniforms in their saddle bags. Okay, who wants to go wake up the Cap'n and tell her she's got horses on her ship, and that they've pooped on the deck?"
posted by foogarky @ 11:19 AM,
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A Death in the Third Person
Read the origin of Mr. Lampooner, literary superhero in chapter 1 of this epic saga here :
http://loonylampoonery.blogspot.com/2008/06/mr-lampooner-literary-superhero.html
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Mr. Lampooner, literary superhero lies in Limbo in the Afterlife. Facing an uncertain fate with no hope of rescue, his absence does not go unnoticed across the multiverses and tales begin to be told of his exploits in an eventful past.
Does anyone remember the epic battle between Mr. Lampooner, literary superhero and Eva Day, Mistress of the Retroactive Dodge? A fearsome foe she was, born with the ability to retroactively dodge an action of malicious intent. It is said her powers were first manifested when her mother, attempting to punish the child for evading errand duty, slapped herself as the child effortlessly dodged the hand motion.
A rising star on the Dodgeball circuit, Eva left behind a glamourous career to take on a life of crime. What terrible incident could have scarred her so to turn to the dark side? What cruelty of a fellow human could have caused this to happen? What unimaginable, unspeakable horror could-
"Oh, quit being so dramatic. You know I chose this because I like it. I like being a bad girl. Rowr!"
"I'm just doing my job, Miss Day. One has to resort to such theatrics to hold the attention of this deficient audience."
"Well, it's silly. And it looks like you've done the vice versa. There goes another one. Another reader lost."
"Bu-but I thought it would-"
"Well, it didn't. You're fired."
And the following part of the story will have no narrator. This is the first time in literary history a story has lost its narrator midway, mid paragraph. Known for centuries to be a faceless character, immortal through the lifespan of the book, immune to the fevers of the fictional world, invincible to the dangers lurking in the forests of the fictional world, can a narrator be gotten rid off so easily? What fate befalls the characters without the guidance of the omnipresent one? What shall this new genre of story telling be called? What horrifying outcome can-
"Are you still here?"
"Yes"
"Didn't I fire you, like five minutes ago? What are you still babbling on about to the audience?"
"I was telling them-"
"Oh, never mind what you were telling them. Pack ye bags and scoot."
And the inspector found the weapon in the laundry. The butler had done it. Mr. and Mrs. Swingbottom were reunited once again. And they lived happily ever after.
"The hell they did. This story ain't over until I say its over. Now vamoose, you clingy little narrator. Go become a footnote in history."
It feels so much better speaking like this, without having a stranger quote you all the time. I am the protagonist of this story. No longer shall I stand to have someone say my lines for me. I am perfectly capable of delivering my own lines. I don't need someone to reword my words, adding fancy verbs when my own vocabulary is deemed incapable of delivering memorable dialogue. I don't need someone euphemizing my off colour statements. I don't need someone altering my appearance to increase sales of this book. I am happy with the size of bosom, thank you. I don't want to disappear in scenes that don't involve. This is my story. I speak first, I speak in person. I speak in the first person.
posted by foogarky @ 11:09 AM,
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The Deus Ex Machinist
"Oh Lordy! It's a Tsunami! And I just bought this beachside apartment. Who's gonna save us?"
"Fear not, local populace of the coastal areas. With a mere snap of my fingers I shall prevent this from happening. For I am the Deus Ex Machinist!"
SNAP!
Reality alters.
"Wouldn't unmaking reality cause anomalies in space-time?", asks a precocious child.
SNAP!
Reality alters again.
"That should teach young whippersnappers like you to be seen and not heard", replies the Deus Ex Machinist, throwing a bone to the recently transmogrified dog and taking to the skies.
posted by foogarky @ 10:25 AM,
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The Divine Hand wears a Ring
I've always thought of Green Lantern's ring as probably the greatest deus ex machina generator in the universe. Every time an enterprising Supervillain comes up with a diabolical plan to destroy the world, the Green Lantern has to just use the power of the Lantern to come up with a perfect foil which is only restricted by the power of his imagination. And it doesn't help the Supervillian's cause that a good imagination is a job requirement for the Green Lantern Corps.
"Oh Lordy! It's a Tsunami! And I just bought this beachside apartment. Who's gonna save us?"
"Fear not, local populace of the coastal areas. I am the Green Lantern and by the light of justice I shall construct this gargantuan commode in the middle of the ocean and flush the troubled waters down. Let there be light!"
"Isn't that God's line?", asks an impertinent young boy only to be silenced by his mother.
posted by foogarky @ 10:19 AM,
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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.
