Plea from a dying man

I can't make out exactly why it would be a thrill to attach more than one name to me, but since you frame it as a dying man's wish, I shall comply. I am a sucker that way. Look for an email with my nom de plume prominent.

If it turns out that this business of your dying is just some kind of cruel hoax, and in reality you are in the pink, as fit as a fiddle, as fine as frog's hair, and poised to trip the light fantastic toe (hey nonny no - as they say), then I shall just have to kill you myself. One simply must draw the line somewhere.

As a matter of fact, long ago, in filthy cellar in a suburb of Paris I crossed a gypsy lady's palm with silver and she told me that the mystical name of Aimless could only be purchased for the sum of one soul - or was it "one sou"? I never did make it out exactly. She had a crazy accent.

How long ago did you cross this gypsy's palm? You see, I too was once in Paris, hiding from a gang of Morrocan thugs, dressed as a gypsy. I dressed as a Hungarian gypsy mind you, not one of those child-stealing, circus travelling, over-sexed Romanian types. I recall being visited by a skinny runt of a creature asking obscure questions, babbling like a lunatic. Offered to cross my palm with silver which turned out to be nothing more than dirty tin-foil. Had the nerve to ask to see my crystal balls.

All this to suggest I may have the power to reveal the true identity of Aimless.

Aimless, remember your promises.

It's too late to ask me to remember anything I said prior to 2000. It's all gone, wiped out by the Great Y2K Absinthe Blur. What did I promise? Not alimony, I hope. The Duchess doesn't need any and I don't think the child is mine anyway.

It's a motto.

Thank You, Zen Clown.

I obtain all my mottos from Mr. Moto's House of Mottos. They also sell tattoos. They claim this is because of the whopping huge "business synergy" generated between mottos and tattoos, or some such nonsense. I say they should jettison the tattoo parlor and concentrate on their core competancy.

Aimless,

Consider yourself lucky that all he asks of you is "who are you".

He asked me to borrow my wife for the weekend.... to catch up on some of the cleaning, laundry, dishes, etc. that has been piling up since he has been under the weather. Same dying wish and all speach was in the email.

How could I say NO.

She returned very late on Sunday evening with a glazed look in her eyes and muttering something about greasepaint.

She took a shower for the next six and a half hours.

His place must have been a mess indeed!

I was going to suggest you consider yourself lucky she returned, but I later though it should be put to you as a question - were you happy she returned?

what color are you dyeing the flea prom?

What's a flea prom?

You know. It's when the outgoing class of fleas get together for a valedictory party, get dressed up, and secretly drink fermented blood.

I misread that as flea pRon and spent the last 29 hours searching the web for info related to dyeing flea pRon..... kinky stuff going on out there, really kinky stuff.

If the gathering fleas have escape from a circus, look no further for kink. Who is nit sittings when the fleas frolic?

Flee!! Flea Frolic!!!!

overheard in Chinatown...

"FLEE! FLEE FOR ALL!"

"Ick"
"What's ick?"
"That pickled thing in the jar"
"Oh Henry, that's disgusting. It's a penny whistle"
"Rose, let's keep walking"

"Flee! So cheap it's plactickly flee"

Acting upon a tip, I googled in here.

It is rumored that there are intelligent people here who, away from their wives, children, parents, friends, co-workers, wardens, nurses and the outside world in general, post bits of what they conceive to be, humor.

I, being German, have no sense of humor, so I cannot judge if this forum is humorous or not.

I stumbled upon this thread seeking information about antelope tuning. I found a few tidbits of advice but when I tried to apply it to MY antelope, it kicked me and ran to the far side of the stockade.

Antelopes or cantaloupes?

Welcome.

I cannot judge if this forum is humorous or not

I think that, on the whole, this will turn out to be an advantage rather than otherwise. Judgement so often interferes with pleasure.

Take, for example, last week when I was preparing a light supper of scrambled eggs with cherval cheese and rat brains. If I had any judgement at all I would have marinated the rat brains in vodka, as per usual. Instead I forewent the marinade and drank the vodka without further ado. As it happened, it improved my enjoyment mightily. So much so that I am only now recovering.

At any rate, judgement is so infernally stodgy, insisting as it does on bringing thoughts to bear on what should be a private matter between our glands and the universe. I try to dispense with it as often as I can.

With your being German, I suppose we Ask-A-Drunkites can only hope you are not one of those 'bad Germans' we keep hearing about - the ones who are loud, boorish, overbearing, insufferably kitschy and given over to alternating bouts of weeping in their beer and goosestepping on their neighbor's petunias. Which is not to say we couldn't do with more of all these activities around here - all except the weeping in the beer. It dilutes it. Purely barbaric, if you ask me. Won't stand for it. Not a bit.

Won't even sit for it.

"loud, boorish, overbearing, insufferably kitschy and given over to alternating bouts of weeping in their beer and goosestepping on their neighbor's petunias"

Not Germans! Surely Americans, except for the goosestepping on petunias, which they do philosophically - neither of their neighbours grow petunias; Canada is too bloody cold and has no flowers, whereas Mexico is partial to hybiscus and cannibis. As for crying in their beer, the stuff they drink is so dreadful anyway the tears only improves the flavour.

"What the German spirit might be--who has not had his melancholy ideas about that! But this people has deliberately made itself stupid, for nearly a millennium: nowhere have the two great European narcotics, alcohol and Christianity, been abused more dissolutely. Recently even a third has been added--one that alone would be suffficient to dispatch all fine and bold fiexibility of the spirit--music, our constipated, constipating German music.
How much disgruntled heaviness, lameness, dampness, dressing gown--how much beer there is in the German intelligence! How is it at all possible that young men who dedicate their lives to the most spiritual goals do not feel the first instinct of spirituality, the spirit's instinct of self-preservation--and drink beer? The alcoholism of young scholars is perhaps no question mark concerning their scholarliness--without spirit one can still be a great scholar--but in every other respect it remains a problem. Where would one not find the gentle degeneration which beer produces in the spirit? Once, in a case that has almost become famous, I put my finger on such a degeneration--the degeneration of our number-one German free spirit, the clever David Strauss, into the author of a beer-bench gospel and "new faith." It was not for nothing that he had made his vow to the "fair brunette" [dark beer] in verse--loyalty unto death." Fred Nietzsche, Die Götzen-Dämmerung

I have seen
The old gods go
And the new gods come.

Day by day
And year by year
The idols fall
And the idols rise.

Today
I worship the hammer.

(If you do not recognize my allusion to Nietzsche, you should probably be reading Dr. Seuss.)

hope this is not too late:

Your message did not reach some or all of the intended recipients.

Subject: talk louder, i can hardly hear you
Sent: 5/9/2005 4:01 PM

The following recipient(s) could not be reached:

'martys@iland.ne' on 5/9/2005 4:01 PM
Unable to deliver the message due to a communications failure

text=

I'm dead, dammit. Leave me alone. You may, if you wish, watch me rot.

First comes the bloating, then the rotting.

(Zen? Are you quite sure you are dead?)

Don't be silly. I stopped breathing two weeks ago.

(You should be on the floor, stiff and cold.)

Rules, rules, rules! Fuck rules! I'm dead now. Rules don't apply to me!

(If you are dead, how is it that you are able to post on the internet?)

Oh pish, pish, posh, posh and poppycock. Death is not as terminal as we sometimes imagine.

(So...Are you dead...Or not?)

Is my penis hard?

(No.)

I'm dead.

You rotter, Zen!

Zo you are zaying that he iz rotzen to zee core....no?

Crabby Appleton, personified.

Inspector Clueso is more like it (but i forgot that you only know foreign languages that sound like someone dumped the silverware drawer on the floor).

Obviously, Mr §téè£ is attempting to insult me. HAH! let him try.

Those inuendos and shiboleths go over my head like a frizbee in a hurricane, like rain off a grebe's back, like shit through a goose.

Watashi wa Nihongo ga wakarimasu, yo. (Mikey understands.)

еdë is jealous of me because I can speak Martian. Grok?

Since this thread doesn't seem to have much of a topic, I have an anecdote to share.

You know those little brake thingies that wheelchairs have. You know...to reduce your speed on the way down a mountain or something.

Try jamming your thumb, as hard as you can, into one of those things.

Because I was engaged in a hurried trip to the bathroom, I sat there pissing my pants and bleeding profusely. "By Joe", I thought, "I'll just bleed to death here, sitting in urine." Well, my bladder emptied and my fibrinogen kicked in and clotted the wound. I'll be fine. Really. My pants should dry out by sometime tomorrow and although my thumb is severely damaged, I wasn't intending to do any hitchhiking anyway.

I am sometimes amazed at the way things work themselves out.

Aimless, I suspect, may be somewhat annoyed with me because I haven't died yet. I am somewhat miffed myself. I had ordered flowers and everything. I keep looking to my left and saying "Boo!" (For those who don't follow me here, I suggest you read A Seperate Reality by Carlos Castenada.

As Douglas Adams said repeatedly before he died, "Don't panic."

As his dolfins said, "We'll miss you, thank's for all the fish." (Or something like that.)

Emerson maintained that 60 years was enough for anyone. Consequently, he died at age 60. That Concord bunch tended to be serious about things. Thoreau was an exception. He caused some raised eyebrows. I've been to Walden twice. Both times in the winter. I wish that I would have been there in warmer weather. I wish I could say "I swam naked in Walden Pond.".

Sigh.

Ever since I read "The Hitchhikers Guide..." I have felt that I was stranded here.

Sometimes I wish I was sober but heck...where's the fun in that?

As long as I maintain blatent inebriation, I will not be expected to exhibit any sort of syntax.

Aimless has written a book. Being a somewhat shy fellow, he won't mention it. I, however, have not a ghost of shyness about me. I bought a copy. It's not exactly "Leaves of Grass" but then Aimless isn't gay. While homosexuality may be a plus in the literary world, some have to suffer through life without that quality.

If you want his book, you'll need to petition him to tell you how to get it.

(Hey Aimless? I hope your face is red. That was my intention all along.) :-)

BTW, Mr Less. I actually know how to pronounce Nez Perce.

Not gay? Has he tried to be? We do want his book to be a success, because from association comes fame for all. Practice faking faggotry Aimless, before the critics declare your book failed.

"Fleeing in Heels, A Fabulous Tale of the Wallowas"

Hah!

The circle gets smaller and smaller.

Does everyone know that Rex will not touch a piece of toast unless it has cream cheese on it?

Matt, as far as I know, is still in Ormskirk, fucking around with frogs.

Stand back, all! Zen is nearing his final end. Look you how he is spilling his guts... er, figuratively.

(NB: I do not believe that spilling mere blood and urine (or vomit) qualify as actual "guts", although they might just scrape in under the heading of "innards".)

Of course, Mr. White has mangled the title of my book in order to make light of it. Tsk. That title should be "Flaming in Heels, A Fatuous Tale of Walla Walla".

I can imagine Aimless, wandering around in his mythical state of Oregon, designating pet names to trees. "Sweety", "Precious", ect.

I hope he is not insulting the oaks. I have two oaks on my property. I commune with them. I understand them. They want to be like their cousins on the grounds of Oxford. They aspire to be rafters, holding back the universe and protecting the written knowledge of mankind.

Also...They might give Mike Morris something to look at while he's pretending to be thinking...