Bloggery

Bloggery, dockery, mock,
My shoe mated with my sock.
A frock was born,
My sheep need shorn(ing)
I'm a radical born(ing/boring/boing boing)

Welcome back to yet another episode of Abnormality Farm, where the animals ask the questions and we ask the question; can animals improve their diction before being shot?
Over to you Mavis:
Thank you Melvis. Now, Donald, can you please oink the alphabet for us?
Oink, Oink, Oink, Oink,
Oink, Oink, Oink, Oink,
Oink, Oink, Oink, Oink,
Oink, Oink, Oink, Oink,
Oink, Oink, Oink, Oink,
Oink, Oink, Oink, Oink,
Poink, Zoinks!

I'm sorry Donald, you almost had it at F and G, but you went downhill from there.

[Off camera a shot is heard]

Ahh, well, that answers that question. Thank you for all your support Mavis, we'll see her later in the show.


And in other news the RSPCA have been convicted of animal cruelty when their 'Supreme President' was found to have ordered the 'plucking of all feathered turtles' for his 'invisible conquering brush of doom 300[tm]'. The turtles have been taken into protective custody as they were being mocked by their more plumed comrades.

If I were to give a name to what I do, it would be controlled and spasmodic wordy buffuonory. All of these (with the possible exception of 'and') are real and non made up words and only add to my power in the field. That field is the use and abuse of the things know as words to bring pleasure and/or alleviate drudgery of the masses. Now, the masses hate words as they are not the most wordy of wordifying peoples. In fact the more words you word word at them the more worded and wordinginst they word.


Feel free to go over that last paragraph and check it out, I'm not sure all of it made nonsense.
This next section is entitled 'Dadaism is like my pants'.

Dadaism is like my pants

Dadaism is like my pants; its easy to put you're leg in the wrong hole and they're both often found clinging to the start of the 20th century with alarming alacrity. Dadaism is also like my pants in other ways; like when I accidentally went without it and got some juice spilt on my trousers! Oh the fun times we've both had.

[{At this point the author read over what he had written and laughed heartily. He then saw that what he had made was very good and he said so. Then he turned to the penguin which was with him and said; 'This all sounds vaguely like some big book I've read somewhere. The penguin said 'Was it 'The Lord of the Rings: The Return Of The King?' The author then said, 'Ah, I think you could be wrong, but we'll go with that because this bit isn't funny.' The Penguin noddedly sagely.}]

Also, for a differently similar style of bloggery, traverse yourself, through the medium of mouse clickery and keyboard tappery to;

http://crapaudio.blogspot.com

which is the home of our good friend S. Royally - which may or may not be a nom-de-plume.

This next section is entitled 'fin'.



Fin

And be better off than you are...

I turned with more than displeasure on my features. 'Who are you to stop me, to question me?'

'Who are you to raise your voice to me?' He countered swiftly.

'Don't you ever give a straight answer to a question?'

'Yes. What would you like me to answer?' I was thrown again. He had a habit of saying precisely the wrong thing.

'Well, look...' I trailed off. Just what was going on? I felt as if I'd been set up. 'What are you doing here? Do you really own this field?' He smiled and answered my questions in reverse order.

'Yes, I own the field, and a few other things. I'm here doing what you're doing; waiting, thinking relaxing, questioning.' Once again he described me too well and I flushed with anger. I expected a camera crew any second and I convinced myself it was a setup, some weird prank.

Nobody materialised and I examined him again with a sigh. 'You have questions?' He cocked his head at the strangeness of it all.

'Yes. Doesn't everyone? I'm pretty sure most people have a lot of questions. Look at children: they have a thousand questions a second, they crave information.' Another thought came to his mind and he added it quickly. 'And love, they crave love too.'

'Listen, Captain monologue, if you're gonna get all 'pop psychology' on me then you can do one!' I hooked my thumb over my shoulder and fixed him with my best 'don't mess' stare. He smiled plainly in response, the most dull and terrifying thing he could have done.

Suddenly, mercifully, it was quiet and I used the time to look around. It was the same as ever, which comforted me. The two trees side by side, mine and its partner and on this side a stump, which never grew.

I don't know whether he cut it or treated it, but it never grew. I shivered suddenly and sat on the stump. I was tired and my anger no longer reined in my curiosity. I let it run free and the words jumped from my mouth, almost as if on there own.

'You never told me any of your questions.'

He smiled. 'No, I didn't, did I. But you see, the question is never as important as the person asking it.'

'What, never?' I was shocked by his assertion and thought hard on it.

'Never.' He seemed so certain, so sure and steadfast that I knew I wanted to topple him.

'I'm sure I've got questions that could prove you wrong.' I smirked.

'In which case you'd probably prove me right, don't you think?'

My head span as he talked us in circles again, I felt like a dancer who didn't know the steps, dancing in a sliding, tilting, dance hall. I felt like a pinball and it tired me. I searched for a question, any question. I wanted to be right - I wanted to win.

'Why is everybody bored, why can't we just be nice? Why is there suffering?'

'Those are good questions. Still, why you ask it is more interesting than what you've asked.'

'Never a straight answer.'

Never a minute to spare, to listen.'

Chastised, I sat and glared at him. He smiled slowly and proceeded to ask me a question.

'Have you ever tried to be nice, to stop the suffering?'

'I wouldn't be able to change a thing.'

'Well, if everybody feels like that, nothing will change.' I smirked and prepared my 'pop psychology' quip again. He beat me to the punch.

'Tell me if I'm wrong.'

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I thought back through my life and cringed as it played out in its awful technicolour glory. Over stimulated, under activated, incessantly impatient; I was hardly a model of world changing glory.

My introverted reflection brought into the light how little I knew of my own personal inquisitor. I looked him up and down and saw nothing of merit. Just some guy on some hill. Actually, I decided, I wouldn't settle for just that information anymore: it was time to ask some more questions. I stood up and found his eyes.

'You're a conundrum chum, I don't know anything about you and you think you can pull me apart like a lab rat, or a pigs heart. Well, I want to know who you are and what you're really doing here.'

My challenge was borne of equal parts curiosity, annoyance and fear, and as I met his eyes I searched them for any sign of the same. And for an ending to this absurd saga.

'I thought you already knew.'