Sunday, March 19, 2017
• The Omicron-Zeta signal lords over the dank patinoire (unlike Del-Wood, from another decade altogether).
• The Burgundy Mezzanine remains unexplored.
• The Krozhay Anchor Commissary remains as the main attraction.
The must of Stratum VI hangs in the air as dozens glide in circles.
The Songs of Roderick echo in the cavernous space with feeble discotheque beats.
This will all be razed by Stratum XIII.
Posted by LordSomber at 11:24 PM
Friday, March 03, 2017
‘The Professor’ and Somber would prop a stereo speaker in an open window and throw some ’60’s garage rock onto the turntable. A case or two of Drewrys beer would suffice for the half-dozen or so friends who would come by.
Cold brews, cool tunes, and the laughs of buddies by candlelight set the scene on the verandah one humid night, finished by the cooing of nightbirds in the shrubbery across the street.
Good times... until the sound of feet stomping down stairs began echoing from within the front hall. The Professor and Somber looked at each other. It was Mr Facaro, who lived upstairs. An uptight grad student, Mr Facaro was an Audubon Society member with a penchant for coffee klatches, public radio, and deriding undergrads.
The screen door flew open and out marched the lanky Mr Facaro in a blue bathrobe, brandishing a broom. The guests on the verandah slinked back in their seats, expecting to be reprimanded by the awakened neighbour for their not-so-quiet shindig.
But Facaro strode right past them, down the porch steps and leapt across the street, where he began furiously whacking the bushes with his broom.
To be honest, it probably was the furley undergrads’ verandah celebration that awoke Mr Facaro and set him off. But why the heck did he have to take it out on the poor birds?
Posted by LordSomber at 12:40 AM
Monday, February 27, 2017
“...According to your memo — January 12th — as to give you some remarks in reference to investing our [redacted]... looked at this and thought, ‘Golly, it’s a lot of paperwor—’”
“This is a bunch of s**t, I’m not gonna do this...”
“...Started reading the instructions, [...] ...that was shown in the book, and was quite amazing to find out [redacted].”
“...Really is a bunch of s**t—”
“...The calls that we did make — with certain customers — could be cut down based on the volume of their business...”
“...Especially, those who’ve given us zilch.”
“...Approximately fifteen percent of our customers gave us about eighty-five percent of the business. And some of the businesses given to me — was really, really bad.”
“...That do not give us —”
Posted by LordSomber at 1:28 AM
Sunday, February 12, 2017
After all, if Timeless Truths are said to be proverbially etched in stone, what is one to make of knee-jerk bromides scribbled on cardboard and marched around High Street, just to be discarded into the gutter an hour later on the way to The Gristle for Social Hour?
The price you pay for your crayon and placard may have been chump change — nay, free, if indeed Free Speech is ineluctably free.
But the cost of credibility proves too high a toll when Ventilated Feelings fall flat in the eyes of John Q. Public, who knows that informed persuasion trumps emotional, low-value pleading.
To state the obvious, the price for anyone to open their mouth is cheap. But whether your words become an expense to your appeal, or become an asset to your very assertions, the cost is commensurate.
[Insert staid but true maxims along the lines of “Money Talks...” or “Walk the Walk...”]
The Onus is always upon the Persuader.
Posted by LordSomber at 10:30 PM
Thursday, February 09, 2017
That used to be the timeless generational cliché, right? Experience plus knowledge equals wisdom — or crotchetiness, or what have you...
Well, it’s the Current Year, as the kids say (circa Stratum XLIV), and what has changed? Everything, yet nothing.
At Café Geherhaus, two young Latté Septoid co-eds furiously scrawl ad-libbed banalities onto posterboard in breathy anticipation of the impending protest against the latest Emmanuel Goldstein.
Across the aisle sits one Johnny Gutts sipping an espresso, watching with wry amusement.
“Aren’t those girls too young to be so bitter about that which they do not know? They’re half my age, abounding in a hurry to signify something. Maybe they should smell the daisies they are afforded in their spoilt station in life — just as I am about to do the same in the station of life I have made for myself.”
Perhaps Mr Gutts is coming off a bit pompous and judgy, but in fact he will be on stage later that evening to perform at a packed concert. No, this is not a ‘Peter Pan Syndrome’ case of extended adolescence, for Gutts has seen the depths and pinnacles of a life appreciated. From the drudgery of gruntwork, $5/day touring per diems and toiling as a Paste-Up Monkey, to the grand zeniths of globe-trotting, meeting heads of state and helming a billion-dollar multi-national corporation, maybe there is some validity to the perspective of Johnny Gutts.
“You know, there’s something wrong when 20-year-olds are the curmudgeons and ‘old-man’ me is the one rocking out, getting chased by women and enjoying the hum of life...”
Don’t stop preaching, Johnny. Don’t stop.
Posted by LordSomber at 11:06 PM
Thursday, January 19, 2017
Courtesy of the Allied Pungeoning Front, Tactical Psionic Devices (nicknamed “Land Minds”) had been embedded in known BBACBL flare-up points during the Rev. Resbo Era [Strata XIX-XXVII]. The TPD’s were equipped with Sheva brainwave sensors calibrated to detect thought patterns exclusive to BBACBL members (thus, civilians would be at no risk).
Thanks to the Orville Corporation’s constant reinvestment in front-end technologies, today’s pungeonings can be executed manually or automatically, by either subsurface ordnance, drone, or even satellite.
How far we have come!
Posted by LordSomber at 11:00 PM