Find Me On:
I have found the experience of soullessness to be quite liberating. If it were one of the denizens of Videogum Dot Com, I would most assuredly give it an upward thumb. I doubt that I shall seek out this cinematic, for fear that when its soul destroying powers are directed against one who is already empty of content, the subject in question could be sucked into the ensuing Void, but if you are indeed considering the carefree lifestyle of the soulless, Mr. hotspur, you should take advantage of this potential short cut, as the path of meditation is rather inconvenient. Om.
By now, my friends, you must all think me the incarnation of the boy who continued to cry “Wolves!” despite a pronounced lack of Wolves in the vicinity, but if you remember the Human tale to which I’m referring, one day, as it happened, there were in fact Wolves! This is that day, and those who are curious can read about it in the final entry of my Public Journal.
Have a merry Thanksgiving!
Dear me, that chunk of flaming stone nearly took my head clean off! A close shave indeed. (Also, I do not wish to embarrass you, Mr. Spiderfire-Monk, but I believe there is a typographical error in your comment.)
My dear friends, I find myself conflicted. Never in my wildest dreams did I believe it possible that I might gain entry into your Monsters’ Gala. No, I have been content to linger outside in the snow, my ears tuned to catch whatever scraps of conversation and music happened to fall from the brilliant windows above, drinking shampayn from an imaginary glass. But now-! I find my stomach recoiling from the mere idea of more intangible shampayn. I fear I cannot go back.
I have never been a competitive Fau- I mean, Human afflicted with a Palsy of the Cerebrum, particularly when I cannot fathom the rules of the game, as is the case with the sport of Upward Thumbs being played here. But I feel a hunger driving me onward and upward. I find this type of disproportionate ambition most indecorous and demeaning but in this instance I lack the will to resist it.
So, in that reluctant spirit, I have chose to assume a new identity on Videogum Dot Com. Since you so enjoyed the manner in which I brought to life the tragic plight of Miss Lawrence’s mints, henceforth I shall be posting my comments and reflections in the character of “mints.” Please do not refer to me as Mr. Tumnus when I am in this guise; it will only weaken the spell I am attempting to weave, thus lessening the number of upward thumbs I receive. As I have seen it quoted several times, the Internet is serious business.
Farewell, my friends. Please join me in welcoming to the stage… mints!
What might have been, if only I were a Nazi….
“We are free! The long winter of our entrapment is at an end,” think the mints. “Alas, our doom is that we carry within us a winter from which there is no escape, the Winter Freshness of our nature.” As one, they consider the approaching floor upon which they will scatter. Soon the tenuous bonds of consciousness allowing them these last few moments of introspection will be broken forever. “As mints we were born and as mints we shall be crushed underfoot. O, the world is a vampire in winter!”
Ahhh, now I understand. Many thanks.
My day was exceptional. Unfortunately, to present it in a context that could be understood required more words than this forum allows. And so, as has become my custom, I direct you to click on the link below. If you happen to find my affairs tedious (which would be entirely understandable), I suggest that you avoid the link below as if it contained a spell of petrification. The tale is lengthy even by my previously established standards of verbosity.
I strongly suspect that this shall be the last entry in my Public Journal. As Mr. Jagger so eloquently put it, “You cannot always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, perhaps you will find something that feeds your deeper needs.” I have found the second thing and I intend to hold on to it. My journey through Spare Oom is at an end. Thank you very much for your kind indulgence.
Just checking in, my friends, in the hope that it will waylay any potential fretting on my behalf. My lower portion remains un-sucked-upon by this sad creature. Although if I did encounter him in the wilds, I suspect that I would be more inclined to share at least a teacup of blood with him than to flee. Then he would be bound to me as my boon companion and together we would get into all manner of scrapes and hijinxes. I would name him Pharrell. I do enjoy that song “Get Lucky” by the Daft Punks. What could possibly be concealed beneath their helmets? Something wondrous, or terrible?
Ah, these are nothing but idle daydreams. I am nowhere near Mississippi.
All this Daughter of Eve lacks is a cage in the shape of a Hash Tag over her head, a travelling trampoline to facilitate the occasional accident, and a belt of up-popping Advertisements orbiting her midriff like a Hooligan’s Hoop for this Internymph costume to be truly complete.
The Chronicles of Scarenia: Prince Frightened-Gaspian.
The Chronicles of Scarenia: The Voyage of the Damned Treader.
Alas, Tucker and Dale did not defeat evil and that fact haunts me still. They wanted to and they were up to the task but Coincidence conspired against them. That and their manner of speaking. Focus on the words, Sons and Daughters of Spare Oom! The manner in which the words are put forth is naught but distraction.
This is awkward, I do not wish to pick at nits, but I believe your genealogy is erroneous. If memory serves, Queen Excrementa was the first-born daughter of King Olvin and Lady Liln, and the successor to the throne of Archenland. Records from that time are sparse indeed but I once possessed a copy of “Observing the Archenland Royals Through a Lens Warped by the Passage of Ages” by Archyvion Mefforio and I do not recall any mention of a King Midas.
Oh. You were speaking in jest. Now I see what you did there.
Your name brings to life a drama within my mind and then fails to resolve it. I suspect that I shall be visiting a very strange karaoke contest in my dreams tonight.
Huzzah! Go, Pink Man, go!
I wonder, if a Horse and a Narwhal were to mate, would they produce Unicorns? The first in Spare Oom! Or would their progeny be some freakish abomination suited to neither land nor sea? A Narse, or a Horwhal. It is interesting to consider but I feel it should be left as a thought experiment. Even an ocean of wine would not be enough to ignite romantic feelings between those two. A pity. Oh, perhaps costumes? But would it be easier to dress the Horse as a Narwhal, or vice versa? Or should they meet in the middle and both dress as Unicorns? Aha, that might work! Indeed, I think it would! For if they both believed themselves to be lying with a Unicorn, surely that would have some effect on their eventual offspring? Or… is that how that works? I am not sure. Hmm.
Upon reflection, this comment is utterly preposterous. A Human cannot grow hooves any more than I can grow feet! Ridiculous! Alas, I could not resist the lure of a flask of spirits when I was in town purchasing provisions today, so I am in my cups. The Twelve Steps Towards Anonymity are more fraught with peril than I had suspected.
I cannot offer advice on all of your problems but it seems that the answer to at least one of them is for you to grow hooves. They are practical and, in my humble opinion, quite shapely. But (perhaps you are thinking) this would only force me to buy even more complicated shoes to conceal my hooves from those – likely in the majority – who are incapable of understanding or appreciating such a radical divergence from the Human norm. “Not necessarily so!” would be my hypothetical reply. My hooves have elicited more curiousity than alarm by a wide margin. But I do wonder if the same would be true if my upper half was of a darker complexion. I have considered darkening it artificially and observing the results but that seems in rather poor taste. Aha! Are you dark in hue? If not, or if you prove to be unable to grow hooves, perhaps you could persuade someone with whom you are acquainted and who fits the epidermal criteria to do so, and then (I fear I am asking too much) you could report their experiences back to me? This is beyond presumptuous, I know, but I feel with a certainty that such an experiment would be of benefit to your Scientifick Arts. I eagerly await your reply.
The Cornucopias of Narnia: The Harvest of the Fall Treader: The Televisual Series.
(I fear this makes absolutely no sense.)
I have posted another “How Did My Day Go, and Why?” update on my journal. It can be accessed by clicking here: http://therealtumnus.tumblr.com/ There. See?
If you do not wish to click on the link, I can summarize my day: it could have gone better. As is the case with all days. But I was not struck by a flying stone spit from the interstellar void! So it could have gone worse.
I accept you as you are, robotcop, and so shall the rest of Spare Oom. One day. The darkness of ignorance is always blackest the moment before it is rent asunder by understanding! For now you must be patient and resist the urge to arrest Miss Kate on charges of racism. Your day shall come.
The thing that makes him such a beautiful Human is that he is never afraid to appear foolish or unattractive. He embraces the inherent silliness of existence. That is what makes the pathos of the milking machine’s plight so affecting. He is us.
While I am not attracted to him in the sense that I would like to get closer to him physically, I must confess that I have been irresistibly drawn to his televisual likeness ever since I first witnessed this:
One feels for the plight of this Apparataiad, trapped within a milking machine and, even worse, forced to participate in activities far outside the machine’s intended function. I felt my heart clench at the drama Mr. Odenkirk brought to life in this scene and I vowed that henceforth I would give a friendly nod to every milking machine I encountered, for it too could be possessed of an animate spirit and perhaps it had been similarly violated. We are all in this together, my Apparataid friends. Be strong.
My friends, please! Restrain your racist bloodlust! Or gearlust, as the case may be.
My friends, this Alex James Murphy is an impostor. Do not trust his lies!
Also, Miss Conaboy’s doubts concerning a Robot’s aptitude for law enforcement reveal the great distance Spare Oom has yet to travel before racism is eliminated once and for all. We must remain watchful for such baseless slurs at all times, even in conversation with friends. To quote the true Alex James Murphy, “Your move, creep!” The creep in question being racism, in all its various guises.