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...as Marie hurriedly wrote all that down in her ever-growing notebook, she stopped at the phra...a..a.a...a.a.se, '"This woof is y-woven with entrails of men' ... and she felt faint ... and sick in her stomach as she thought back over all the sudden deaths that had occurred ... and she hoped for ...
and she hoped for ...Everything to stay down.I must not think of the bloody little yellow lumber men,and their Toliver Gravy she thought to herself.
I must make it through this queasy moment then I can...............
Then all and sundry were taken aside and given a bit of education in the warp and woof and the why and wherefor.
Early Scot and Irish (I mean, EARLY) women (nearly WOTPP types mark you) had to convince their habitually dimly-focussed male counterparts (sex, war and sex being their main activities) to abstain from running naked through the dales, glens, valleys and hallways, and so the conniving and peace loving FEMALE peoples of those times derived a novel solution - make a skirt the brave lads could wear to cover their curmudgeons AND make it with a novel bit of warrior-succumbing poetry so the very LACK of wearing such a thing would have killed (kilt dontcha know) any man less than a foot from his grave.
The rest is, of course, history.
So say I!
pad.
Petronella awoke with a start and slight gasp from the strangest of dreams. There was a wonderfully chaotic and peculiarly quaint little Planet, of Prehistoric Women and a handful of Befuddled Bards, where she might of shot JR, but wasn't entirely sure, as reality and continuity were more like suggestions there, than anything else. Yet, on the other hand, she wore a glove. :wave:
and on the other hand, she did not. Did one hand decide to put the glove on it's own? Is this a case of the left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing? Or did the left hand help? She didn't know. She looked around for the other glove, it wasn't in view, but what was in view was...
...a giant in great big boots, marching across the Planet, with his head in the clouds, cos that's where giant's heads live ... he looked down on everyone and saw Petronella trying to sort her gloves out ... so he drew himself up to his full stature, which was rather large, as is the wont of giants .. and with a big huff and ...be very afraid ... puff ... he opened his huge knapsack and drew out a ... vegemite sandwich ... which he devoured after the manner of giants with no great delicacy or manners ... then as he was about to lift one boot to tread forward ....there appeared ...
a castle, a rooster and a giraffe: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WksYQ...elated&search=
http://wwp.greenwichmeantime.com/tim...adian-flag.jpg
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It is my pure and virtuous heart that
gives me the strength of ten!
Someone call ? ..................... http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v5...s-/Giraffe.gif ... and I will appear !
Slowly, gradually heaving its ponderous bulk up from the briny depths of the cold, cold sea, the outsized cephalopod emerged from the dark coastal waters and slithered its way onto the shore. Dripping with foul-smelling algae and seaweed, the tentacled tourist surveyed its surroundings, scanning the horizons from any sign of activity. But, the landscape was a desolate lonliness, bereft of any signs of life, not even a thin plume of smoke.
What had happened to the ribald denizens of the Prehistoric Planet? Where were the Women with their ever present tablets and quills, their lists and embroidered gloves? And, what of wee Tommy and his mates?
Perplexed, the boneless blob pondered these questions briefly, then reluctantly returned to the primordial ooze from whence it had come. And yet, as it slipped beneath the dark, briny waters, deep in its squishy chest... er... torso... um... central trunk, what passed for a heart was secure in the knowledge that the WOTPP would someday return.
...Gladys with her Guitar ... unpacked her bags and put posters up everywhere announcing that she had 'hit town' .. well the Prehistoric Planet ... to those who knew her, they knew that she had Gigs galore under her belt, also a vegemite sandwich ... so they knew she would put on a great show.
Gladys cried after the Tentacled creature, 'come back, come back, you don't know what you're gonna miss ...'
Gladys leaped onto the nearest table and proceeded to....
launch into a highly spirited rendition of "Smoke Under Water."
But the Squid could not be lured back.
Down in the depths in his lair, our diabolical denizen of the deep brooded, reflecting on the situation. Dr. Bruce was drunk on a street corner on Lonely Street, begging for spare change -- gone were the dreams of world domination -- he had tried without much success to get the Cyborg Wombat to do some street walking -- there were few takers. Chi-Ken was locked up in a closet in Ahab's cheap housekeeping room above the sleazy Taco Del Mar, wrapped up in duct tape with tin foil over his head to keep him from committing seppuku with his Zen powers. Ahab, himself, had opened a small nautically-themed interior design shop with Ms Butterfly, called "Well Hello There, Sailor!" -- they were catering to the well-heeled gay crowd that frequented the waterfront on the wrong side of town. And Wee Tommy, well, he wasn't so wee anymore; a taste for too many McHaggis burgers had led to him looking more like Fat Bastard. And where was Mr. P? Nobody knew. The trail of vegemite sandwhich crumbs had petered out part way through the woods where a malicious and smug-looking gang of chickadees threatened hapless travellers. And Moby and Daisy, well they ran an after hours gambling-club/booze-can in a disused wing of the Heart Break Hotel. The dames were scattered, who knew where, after Moby had tried to press them into "service," claiming to be the new Mr. "P" on the block. And the Petronella twins..... ahh and the Petronella twins..... well there were some consolations. Dr. Bruce in one of his few sober moments of late had fitted them with cyborg gills and webbed toes.
"I should be happy enough," thought the Squid. But he felt a kind of identity crisis: the scripts he had worked with wavered between Mickey Spillane and Stan Lee and Gene Roddenberry. Who was he really? He looked at his reflection in a polished abalone shell. He still had it he thought -- he was a Charles Bronson, a Clint Eastwood, a Sean Connery, a Captain Kirk among squids. "But," he wondered, "was there still an audience for a nitro-testosterone-fueled stallion of a squid?" He hadn't seen a new script in months.
Dejected, he picked up the kraken phone and called his agent: "Hey, Moshie! It's the Squid. Long time no see. What's up? Any work for me?"
Moshie coughed, mumbled, muttered and shuffled papers, and then suddenly sounded excited. "Actually yes! A great new script just came in: Brokeback Reef! A poignant, heart-wrenching, sensitive tale of the forbidden love between a tall dark handsome macho squid, the strong silent type, and a gender-ambivalent octopus shrimp-herder."
The squid made various non-commital noises. Moshie said he would courier the script over. The squid hung up.
He slumped. Then he thought, suckers drumming on the coffee table, "I must do something. The dramatic tension here has been rather lacking of late. Hmmmm hmmm............ Chi-Ken......... I must rescue Chi-Ken. We have more than a few scores to settle with that bloated minnow, Moby. And we must find out about the NooNoo, the Prehistoric Planet's elusive Professor Moriarty. " His photophores flashed with excitement.
The Petronella twins, who had been modelling neoprene lingerie at the back of the underwater cave in a vain effort to cheer up the Killer Kraken and catch his attention, suddenly perked up. "What's up, Squishy Stud-Muffin?" they bubbled hopefully.
"Just you wait and see, Clamcakes! Just you wait and see! Bawaa Hahaha!"
And the sound track swelled ominously... <Dunh Dunh Dunh! Ahh ahh ahh ahh!>
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It is my pure and virtuous heart that
gives me the strength of ten!
Meanwhile the Prehistoric Planet waited with baited breath.
Down on the warf, Ahab, opening another can of worms, was holding a master baiting seminar. The clientelle from his interior design shop looked on in awe.
"Arrr..me hearties," he ejaculated pointedly, a large fish-hook in one hand and a massive red wriggler in the other, "the main point be t'disguise the hook. The squids... err .. . the fish don't take t'the bait if the hook be a might too obvious. They be right ornery beasts."
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Turbo Squid
At the end of the warf, Gladys sat oblivious to Ahab's master baiting. She stared down into the water forlornly. No one had ever walked out.. err slithered out on one of her performances. She picked up her guitar and slowly began the ancient and mournful Chinese folk melody, Tu-Ning, hauntingly beautiful with it's melodic intervals of equal-tempered 4ths.
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http://forums.windrivers.com/images/.../2010/07/1.jpg
It is my pure and virtuous heart that
gives me the strength of ten!
..but the Squid would not be lured back, so Gladys tried another tack ... she grabbed another instrument ... and began to play ....
Everyone, yes, just about everyone dashed back to the stage to hear the great Gladys and her Pips ... to hear this amazing melody, which is not Tu-Ning but the well-known Yang Ming Chun Xiao
Even the boys from the far side of town zoomed across to hear ... the NooNoo stopped in it's tracks .. its huge ears flapping .. the Petronella twins stood in amazement ... and Marie dropped her notebook .. the tune was so ...
..... discordant, so utterly oriental in nature, yet in its' jarring staccato lurked a beauty that caught the attention of....