oh how I hate editing posts, so let's do it together

Stolen from Storch's owner.

Storch was considering his physical existence. There he sat on an orb that was spinning at one thousand miles per hour. Not only that, but this orb was traveling through the frozen vacuum of space at sixty-seven thousand miles per hour. Where was it going? No where. It was circling a much hotter, much larger, and much less dense orb. And from this less dense orb came that which activates all things necessary to the existence of all things on, and within, this orb. Seemed quaint enough, in a cosmic sort of way.

However, when he considered that most of the surface of this orb was covered with water, while also considering its rate of spin and speed, he couldn't help feeling that everyone's position here is just really precarious. All that water! If anything interrupts that spin or speed, there's going to be a lot of mopping up to do afterwards, and almost certainly no one left to do it. If anyone is left to do it, almost certainly they'll be in no condition to do so. And even if they were in good enough physical condition, they'll almost certainly lack the will to do so.

He now began to view meteors and asteroids in a less than favorable light. A meteor or an asteroid could potentially affect the spin or the orb of the planet. At the same time, however, he understood that meteors and asteroids don't slam into our orb, but that our orb slams into the meteors and asteroids. He thought about how long he had been believing that meteors were the aggressors. Then we started thinking that he was like a world complaining about all the hits he was taking without once considering that such collisions have everything to do with his chosen path and that which he chose to orbit.

 

thedope looked at his friends and was bemused by the fact that anyone would try to figure thedope as anything other than a reflection of their own regard.
thedope becomes an eclectic mix of varying levels of confusion. It is like watching a birthday party of you own one year old children play in their cake as they apply sugar frosted styling gel to their scantily coiffed noggins. Much good natured hilarity.

thedope is a denizen of the forest and had never seen a new leaf be anything but suspended in the air gulping sunlight. A knee jerk association on revolving leaves and he hadn't remembered to think that Dejavu could be referring to turning over a new leaf in his heavily sheaved post it book. thedope thought Dejavu somewhat prudish not in his prudent use of words, but in that he is easily shocked by what he thinks of as ugly combinations. As far as gulping air underwater thedope happened to be verse in self contained underwater breathing aparati.

 

Stolen from Storch's owner and adapted to fit this thread.
　
Theories having to do with the afterlife had intrigued Storch as a child. He was frightened by them as well being intrigued. First, there was the Heaven theory, which holds that immortality is granted by virtue of an agreement made with one's Creator. Based on appearances, this agreement boils down to gaining immortality in the next life by accepting the terms of obedient surrender in this life. A potential downside for those who go this route is that their eternity will be played out in a landscape of their Creator's choosing; and considering the Creator's legendary craving for acknowledgement, praise, and worship, it is likely that His idea of an eternal good time and John Doe's idea of an eternal good time are going to be two different things altogether.

Then there was vampirism. Vampirism was the alternative to the Heaven theory. It allowed one to bypass the endless re-birth and re-death processes, thereby allowing one to experience no interruptive break in the continuity of existence. On the surface, this sounds good. In fact, the list of advantages of being a vampire are more than just a little compelling. Think of it--mastering multiple musical instruments; mastering the greatest works of the greatest piano masters; quoting the entire works of Shakespeare by heart; able to kick the asses of ten Bruce Lees simultaneously while blindfolded with both hads tied behind your back; never aging; able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. Storch's first thoughts on vampirism was: where do I sign up?

But, like Heaven theory, vampirism had its downside, too. For instance, a recent poll suggests that ninety-nine percent of all vampires were not at all artistically inclined before their transition/infection. Yet, a full one hundred percent of that ninety-nine percent are certified masters of at least twelve artistic disciplines covering the works of all the masters. What this means is that the lack of a break in the continuity of existence has driven them to develop mastery over even mundane and previously undesirable pursuits. Indeed, a popular misconception about vampires is that they are creative geniuses, what with the Shakespeare and the piano playing and all. However, vampires do not become more creative with the passing of time. Heard of any vampires composing their own stuff lately? Didn't think so.

The sad truth is that vampires soon learn that 3-dimensional reality allows for only so many possibilities; only so many objects to observe, and only so many ways in which to observe and move with and within them. Eventually, the frame of reality is seen in its entirety and its smallness both at the same time, and reality becomes just another coffin of sorts (devastating). Unable to press forward in any meaningful way, the vampire is thus forced to retrace his/her steps in its hunt for past meaning missed on side roads dismissed three hundred years before. Small wonder, then, that, according to the same poll mentioned earlier, a full one hundred percent of all vampires claim they were told very little about very much about vampirism by their recruiters. Storch had been given the opportunity to become a vampire in his mid-forties when he had given up on life becoming anything like reasonable.

 

("...good reads, interesting concepts..." went the goblin listening in)

repost from elsewhere, a small town american forum's "last post" thread

in fact, the goblin had mentioned it before, but for him at least, this site, and being here, always felt like being in america, though it was an america without that american pretense or brag here, just an everyday one with everyday members living everyday lives, "...well make that two donuts and an american coffee please..." shouted the goblin to to the bistro owner's wife again, she looked back, first perplexed, and then burst out laughing "...oh sinor goblin, you're trying to kill me, your joke is very funny my sweet one...", somehow this enormous credibility gap had just opened wide where the wooden floor in the bistro had been, even though the goblin was in fact quite in earnest here, simply he liked america whenever it didn't notice the camera pointed at it


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repost from elsewhere

the goblin liked the replies, saying "...the number of posts, the hitcount and ratings is only going to make one neurotic as there will always be other members on forumland that have a far greater number of "whatever" than one has but what of it, where the only thing that actually matters is the question of "are you happy by being here", where if so then just stay then..." but for the goblin it always remained just him against himself wherever, in that, in posting on as he did, and as he would continue to do too, simply he won against the part of himself that was saying why bother each time, simply to post on was to win on in his view


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Storch was this close--()--to reminding thedope that the word "decypher" is spelled with a Y, and not an I. By remind, he of course meant that he would dress up some ridicule, and try to pass it off as some well-intentioned, light-hearted fun.* And then, almost as if to prove that there is a God, he noticed that he himself had made the same mistake in his post. And to make matters worse, when his fingers were asking his brain for the proper spelling, it got lazy and made thedope the go-to guy for a quick spell check. He felt he had lazied himself right out of an opportunity to have some light-hearted fun.


* Though it was within his powers, Storch had steadfastly refused to use those powers to expose the semi-illiteracy of others unless they first tried it with him (tried being the operative word there) or unless he was having a bad day, which ever came first.

 

After giving some thought to the offer, Storch began to concoct justifications for a decision to turn vamp. He was thinking about how there was really not much difference between the lives of humans and the lives of vampires when it came right down to it, and especially if you're a reincarnation theorist. He knew that the reincarnators would claim that the only thing they have in common with vampires is immortality. They believed that the real litmus test for determining one's vamp-status is, and always has been, the drinking of the blood of one's victims. Storch wondered if the reincarnators were being honest with themselves when they draw such dubious distinctions between themselves and vampires.

Was it really fair to distinguish oneself as a non-vampire simply because one cooks their blood before consuming it? Or because they dump the blood of your victim down the drain and restrict themselves to the flesh of the animal--and then only after it's been cooked? Storch could almost detect a hint of superstition in their notions concerning the cleansing power of fire, and how it can purify even the bloodiest aspects of any harvest. With some sarcasm, Storch thought: Oh yeah, them god-damned vampires, unholy creatures that they are, won't even take the time to do a purification ceremony as we reincarnators do, even though it requires no more that a fire and a tea/blood kettle. Is such laziness the product of evil, or is such evil the product of laziness? Like, which came first, the chicken or the egg?

He wondered if people ever stopped to consider that they truly are no better than vampires in some respects. Did they ever wonder why the scene of an animal being "harvested" looks eerily similar to the scene of a vampire attack? He referred to it as similar because the scene of an animal being harvested is seventeen times more horrifyingly gory than the scene of a vampire attack. A vampire attack consists of two small pinholes in the neck, and yeah, symptoms of advanced anemia. By contrast, the back room of a butcher shop looks like the scene of an especially terrible vampire attack that had gone oh so wrong.

 

The more Storch thought about it, the more he saw the reincarnation experience as really nothing more than the vampire experience played out over and over and over again. He considered the vampire experience. You stop breathing, you die, you're buried, and the next thing you know, you're up and running again in a new body. Then he considered the reincarnator experience. You stop breathing, you die, you're buried, and the next thing you know, you're up and running agian in a new body. Oh, and you're hungry! Always the hunger; always the hunting; always the feeding. Storch could see that both the vampire and the reincarnator would be involved in endless feeding 'til the cows come home. But he knew that the cows wouldn't be coming home because they had no legs because we ate them. Storch knew that we have more in common with vampires than we know.

 

Dejavu decided he'd do some recollecting. All the reposting and reediting around him had him rerereing to say something, anything really, as opposed to being stared down by the slot. The first thing he'd ever told anyone he wanted to be was a diver. He was a very good drawer, and drew pictures of divers, sea creatures and the like, and when he was ten he went diving in an aquarium. His brother and cousin couldn't go down, ears and teeth and noses and other bits of their heads made them unable to equalize, and they had to be taken up by the instructor who left Dejavu down there. He remembered that the buoyancy compensator had seemed too big, and the regulator too, and ever since then he had only snorkelled. What a shocking conclusion, he concluded, and resolved not to give over to too much recollection while he still had ideas caking his brain, ideas that he could scrape off and through to realization. Why was treasure-hunting such a formidable business for instance? The business bit, wasn't it? Not to mention the prospectors who felt their profession was in itself an accomplishment entitling them to a cut from all findings, owing to the cut of their jib. The by-law seek and ye shall find they did well by, more or less, the treasures. It was like every god-head we ever encounter, who flounders before a straight gaze, saying, we are but figments of your majesty, or detritus if you like, we are but pawns upon your royal premises nibble sire. We never leech O lord no, look at how we suck! -- But how does one hold ones looks upon them? And for what? Can we say, O people, my loves! We are but peasants tilling the soil of paradise until it strikes us to dig for gold? Or, maybe, O my hearty cabbages, hold! You do not labour for anything, least of all naught, for look, yonder, there you lie, in dreams, of yourselves! No, the immortality bug has bitten our behinds so benignly, we think we have to die for it, if we even notice it at all... Dejavu stopped raving, and laughed. He wondered, if he were not his unassuming self in the dailylife, if he was instead a great assuming self, would it make any difference at all. And so, in turn, he wondered instead if he should edit in turnips for cabbages.

 

Storch heard Dejavu, and he wanted to tell him that it did make a difference whether it was his unassuming self or a great assuming self in the dailylife. However, he did not want to tell him that the difference it made made no difference at all.

 

Regardless whether thedopes friends considered themselves unassuming, great assuming, or never really got that there is no such word as decypher, being spelled decipher all along, they remained incalcuable even though wondering and considering seemed calculating somehow. . .

Sheoot*, might as well satisfy Dejavu's request for superfluousity and wonder my own sef* with all this reposting going on had anyone done anything for anybody lately.



*colloquialized american english, (remnant of a childhood around Kansas City in the state of homogeneous Misery)

 

Storch readily admitted (after first checking to make sure that the word "admitted" contained two Ts) that his attempt to get thedope to forever spell the word "decipher" with a Y was unsuccessful.

 

Storched earth policy.

 

Thedope on the Storched earth policy.

 

Tar baby pointed out to thedope that they were all five as the count stood, on cosmic camera, the thought made thedope smile at the memory of Alan Funt.

 

The sad truth was that Storch had misspelled the word "decipher." He was having a Jethro moment and he didn't like it. He wanted to take it out on thedope so bad, but being the ethical being that he was, he decided that the thedope was not enough to blame to warrant any kind of abuse towards him. Instead, he considered the only real option open to him: hari kari, but with his own big dictionary to the head instead of a sword to the heart.

Sunday night at 10:00 pm. (eastern standard time) Candid Camera. Storch was thankful that he didn't have a name like Alan's. He couldn't help wondering if some television executive told Alan that he would have to go to court and request an ever so slight name-change before he'd be allowed on TV.

 

As a child, Storch hated Sundays. He was, however, thanful for that Sunday night line-up of programs. It started at 7:00 with Lassie, then Walt Disney, then ?, and then Bonanza, and then Candid Camera . . . *Storch lapses into the past/passed*

 

("...none of the mistakes matter, one just goes along writing away like this and then suddenly something becomes the base of some direction one wants to go in, so one tries again, conversely one might do a post that says it all, and then one stores it because it was worth keeping..." mentioned the goblin, adding "...what does it matter if one in a hundred post is worth keeping, the ninety-nine others was the cost of succeeding...")

repost from elsewhere

the goblin was beginning to feel that all this posting had somehow given him a real bovine aspect, in that, having grazed upon the events of the day, the goblin's mind just seemed to then regurgitate the cud of those events back up in to his mind to chew though the evening with, "...well, so whether it's here in front of this screen like now, or in some futile attempt to sleep in bed, it makes no difference, for my brain still chews away until everything is fully digested and absorbed..." mentioned the goblin to himself tonight too, as the hours ticked away before him once again, moreover when he did finally sleep his dreams were like novels come to life, concluding "...nah, it isn't what one writes so much as the practice of writing that counts..."


47

 

repost form elsewere

[attention: the names mentioned here are picked at random and are purely fictional, any apparent connection to someone known now is mere coincidence]

as usual admin turned up dressed in her school uniform and shouted “...you won't get away with it you wicked goblin ...” that is while threateningly raising her magic wand up into the air as she span round, the music started, flashing lights, ribbons appeared to the words “sailormommy” half a day later a now dizzy whatever faces off the goblin for the possession of the last post thread, the goblin's sardonic smile lets out the words “...your pink postable thingies won't help you now, I have sealed off the lady's room, your pink chalk powdering days are over, admit defeat and I will let you live...”, “...oh no not our restroom...” she sighs perplexed, suddenly the stork of a red rose hits the goblin's center of control, his bistro table no less, moddy dressed like dracula in goggles appears and calmly remarks “...anything to help the mommies but I'm still looking for inspiration...”, the goblin beats a retreats but no doubt his dire plots will continue here


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Dejavu had taken storchs disclosure to heart. That of the difference we make making no difference. He wanted to add that the difference the difference didn't make was only a difference to the difference being a difference. He also took what fleamailman mentioned to heart, that the difference we do make is worth it in the making, that it is all the difference whilst being made. That having no deference to indifference towards the attempts at a difference suggest we could keep on doing so, making a difference that is, though said motions at one were undifferentiated in not differing enough to have made one. His heart was not different. Thou art that thedope, added Dejavu as an afterthought, knowing thedope made a difference but denied that he did in the leisurely languour of knowing he needn't. What a different place the earth was, potentially, under the policies we thrust upon it, Dejavu mused as he finished contributing his part of his share in the thread at that point.