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| Everybody look here and tell me I suck and stop yelling at each other. by mrs. johnson 09/11/2003, 1:52am PDT | ||||
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| Here, mom and dad, I drew you a picture. Can't you stop your a feuding and a fussing to look at it? And to tell me that it's gay and terrible.
Break time. Thousands rush outside and into their own insides, seeking food, cigarettes and society, hoping for a tremendous change, right then and there, finding nothing but their own expectations staring back into their face, luminously flowing from one part of the conscious effort to another, feeding the ego with regurgitated memories, maybe even creating a falsehood that will last longer than any before it. Hooray for everlasting noises of the crickets. Hooray for the difference between autumn and spring warmth. Hooray for the sky and exhibitionists. Hooray for the blurred line between nature and art, beauty and sex. The story here is of an object. In your local Museum of Science and Industry there are multiple objects on display, some that are separated from their visitors by glass, some by a velvet red rope. A rope that feels the warm caress of the human touch many more times than any man or woman. The rope that we shall discuss at the present time has a name, a mind and a disposition. Frederick the Red, or Freddy for short, was created in the early seventies, in Archangel, New Hampshire, in the deepest bowels of the Omniflex Corporation’s premiere production and distribution center, dubbed Oslo by it’s workers. The red velvet rope is actually composed of two parts. The interior resembles the ropes that we all used to climb in high school gym class, the same one that actually gave certain boys their first taste of the pleasures their manhood could bring them. The white velvet material, composed of various purely synthetic space age materials, died with dye red number twenty four. The rope is fed through a machine which quickly stitches the not yet died velvet over it. It is then sent on, hundreds of yards in length, into the dying vats, and then it is hung to dry. The next day, while a new batch of red velvet rope is being created, the now dried and fabulous rope is cut up into various lengths, after which metal hooks are glued to the ends of each section. Fold, pack, ship. Freddy was shipped to the zoo, originally, to separate the riff raff from the valuable displays of cavemen. It was later decided by the local government that velvet rope was actually easy to step over, and so the cavemen were forever locked behind bulletproof glass. Nobody is quite sure how the directors approved the funding for bulletproof glass, but it paid off. When a deranged man attempted to rob a couple visiting the zoon in the abandoned caveman room, he shot at the display to prove that he was not bluffing. The bullet bounced off and struck the man in the shoulder. He was apprehended and is currently out on parole after serving five years in a small cage. Freddy was placed in the storage room, and forgotten. Freddy laid in the darkness for ten years, thinking. About what, you ask? Well, that’s difficult to translate, but it mostly has to do with the touch. Dreaming of isolated frozen islands that have nothing but enormous lines of people, just waiting to place their hands onto his entire length, with nothing behind the rope but the entire universe, as the great attraction. Dreams of being the dividing line between known and unknown, floating in space like some great unnatural and useless god, in the later years, where senility has taken away all but immortality and propulsion. He was discovered in the mid eighties by an elderly janitor, who then smuggled Freddy home and gave him as a gift to his four year old grandchild. The parents of the child were mortified, as they didn’t like the looks of those hooks, but the child refused to let go of the smooth offering, immediately throwing sever hysterics if force was applied. In the night then, the parents stealthily removed the hooks, leaving Freddy mangled, but still happy, as he was being touched almost continuously. The child eventually turned in a depressed teenager and used Freddy to hang himself, in a moment of suicidal tension. The parents, distraught, threw Freddy out, who was then found by a bum. The bum used Freddy as a mantle for a couple of years, and then died on a cold night in 1994. A dog carried Freddy of the body back to its owners. The elderly couple was charmed by the dirty and ragged velvety rope, and the lady decided that a good wash would bring it back to form. She cut Freddy along the length of his stomach, threw out the rope and ran Freddy through the wash. She then used her impressive sewing skills to turn Freddy into a scarf, which she gave to her son, as he was about to leave for training in the military. The scarf was lost in a card game to a crafty, enterprising young man by the name of Tom, who used it to smuggle cocaine into the base. By now, Freddy, was too stunned by a whirlwind changes to even properly enjoy being handled. He settled into a well deserved lull and waited. The cocaine smuggling ring was busted, and he was confiscated. After a few months in storage, he was successfully used as evidence by the prosecution. At that point, he was placed into storage and designated to be returned to Tom upon his release from prison, in 2005. Freddy still sits in storage, immortal, changed, but still velvety and red, waiting for any proverbial master to carry him away, his glitter long gone, his rope long incinerated, even his color faded to a dull pink. Fortunately, there is a lesson in all this, and this is not just a silly excuse to direct attention from feuds and arguments that are base in nature. The moral is simple, yet deep, fabulous, yet obvious, tremendously out there in the open, but hidden, like the Chalice of Christ. the mrs. |
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Everybody look here and tell me I suck and stop yelling at each other. by 09/11/2003, 1:52am PDT  What the fuck is the matter with you? by 09/11/2003, 2:25am PDT I DON'T HAVE A THESAURUS. IT'S NATURAL! by 09/11/2003, 2:53am PDT NO MORE WRITING FROM YOU by 09/11/2003, 2:39pm PDT Re: NO MORE WRITING FROM YOU by 09/11/2003, 3:31pm PDT Dude looks like a lady, dude. If you know what I mean. by 09/11/2003, 3:38pm PDT Jesus, just don't read it. NT by 09/11/2003, 4:09pm PDT THANK YOU BINRO! by 09/11/2003, 7:39pm PDT Yeah, I agree. Also, why aren't you staying in your pen (Voltron)? NT by 09/11/2003, 4:15pm PDT Late night accident. NT by 09/11/2003, 4:25pm PDT |
