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"Stalking the Cabbage Across the Hair of the Dog, With Poor Verb Agreement" - Lakeshore
An author of no particular popularity

Jay Lake
Date: 2007-04-06 08:10
Subject: "Stalking the Cabbage Across the Hair of the Dog, With Poor Verb Agreement"
Security: Public
Tags:conventions, funny, personal, stories
The Write a Story in an Hour panel was a success. Sort of. We got a story. It was me, Caitlin Kittredge, lisamantchev, and Kat Richardson, along with an audience of about two dozen. The panel and the audience worked together in a sort of Mad Libs/improv style, with Kat whiteboarding and Caitlin reading the recaps. Here below a cut for f-list mercy, not to mention the vain hope of a shred of tastefulness, is the result, exactly as I typed it.




"Stalking the Cabbage Across the Hair of the Dog, With Poor Verb Agreement"

By the burgeoning hordelets

Once upon a time on a flea infested dog, Little Johnnie the owner eructated, decapitating the trebuchet. The large creaking bucket loaded with glee toppled toward his best friend, George, who happened to be a cabbage. Notably agile for a cabbage, prehensile in fact, George scrabbled for a seven letter word. Herkimer spasmed, causing a violent chain reaction, badly pissing off the chain.

Meanwhile, back on the dog, there was a sudden outbreak of confusing anthropomorphic odors. "Smells like man to me," said George. He grabbed up his travel which was full of bees providing honey for the tea he planned to drink later -- it was a hive mind mug, assimilated in his system when he drinks it -- goes dancing. Because, he knows the Kinks. "In fact, it smells just like teen Ray Davies."

Herkimer, an innocent candy store owner accidentally swept up in this self-referential narrative, wanted to candy cabbage. He therefore had trenchant designs on poor George. Stalking the cabbage, he made his way across the hair of the dog. The dog was a Zimbabwean Battle Dog, and fairly unhappy with the war of fleas being waged on it's derriere. "Appearing nightly." In order to achieve his fiendish aims, Herkimer attacks downtown Tokyo with psychotropic candy wearing a large rubber.

Little Johnnie was drinking more Royal Crown Cola so he could eructate further, in hopes of getting the dog safely home. George had spiked Little Johnnie's cola with some of Herkimer's psychotropic candy. The candy caused Little Johnnie to break into a knitting needle factory. Once he'd succeeded in stealing a gross of knitting needles, his plan was to make sox for his dog. He lacked only one thing.

Spaghetti!!!

The angry chain rampaged through the bucket of spilled glee, spreading the stuff everywhere. Oh, the odor of humanity. Tokyo cried for glee, while Little Johnnie grabbed a mop and cleaned it up. In his psychotropic haze he in fact will believe it to be spaghetti. A week from Thursday.

Herkimer, having ravaged Tokyo like a cheerleader on prom night, discarding his rubber (suit) alongside the road, went in search of George. The canny prehensile cabbage had invaded a corned beef factory, where the odor of salted meat would mask even his eldritch stench. A group of gleeless fleas showed up looking for some fresh eldritch. Little Johnnie followed the fleas into the corned beef factory.

Herkimer followed the eldritch riot in progress to reach his goal. The Zimbabwean War Dog, chased by the burgeoning pack of headless trebuchets, arrived on the scene just as all heck broke loose.

Herkimer, crazed beyond measure by his overweening ambitions in candy making, raced toward George who was lurking yet behind the giant vat of meat which reeked of bad literature, man. He tripped over Little Johnnie, who was too little to notice, and was in fact afraid guy covered in stickiness running at him full tilt. Seeing his best in trouble and getting in the way, George valiantly upends the vat of meat on Herkimer, causing it to slide forth like a glacier of protein with the noise of a thousand dying camels.

"Don't show me your walrus," screamed Herkimer, his dying words as his own walrus flopped in the breeze. The Zimbabwean war dog raced to eat the meat, the horrendous smell of which wiped out the flea armies.

George attempted to exit the premises only to find the door blocked by zombie trebuchets. Meanwhile the dog had gone whack-o-matic from eating the psychotropic coating slicked on Herkimer's outer integument. Then the trebuchets attacked in their massive, tiny hordes. The whacked out psychotropic dog sees the trebuchets as nothing but a row of giant fire hydrants. Meanwhile, the chain suffered another indignity.

In the end, balance was restored to the farce and Herkimer in his dying moments achieved an elegant satori denied to most ordinary mortals.

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gvdub: bummed
User: gvdub
Date: 2007-04-06 16:37 (UTC)
Subject: (no subject)
Keyword:bummed
There's something about this piece that vaguely reminds me of the work of Racter.
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