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Monday, December 8, 2008
So I'm headin out to the store to get some popcorn when a snowstorm hits town an freezes me in a block a ice. A coupla thousand years later I get thawed out by some friendly sciencebots diggin through the arctic tundra who label me an ship me to my new home at the Franklin D. Schwarzenegger Museum of Disposable History where I dazzle and amaze the children of tomorrow with the edutaining puppet shows of yesterday.
"And that's how Jesus wrote the Constitution," says me. "Tell us more tales of your savage time!" says one a the disembodied floatin brains. "Well back in the ol days we didn't have your fancy Senatrons and Congressbots," says me. "We hadda pick our presidents the ol fashioned way, with a money-eating contest. The first candidate to swallow half a billion dollars without throwin up would be King of all Florida!" "Intriguing!" says the second brain. "Now battle Clone Lincoln... to the death!" "Raaarrrrr!" says Clone Lincoln. The exhibit closes after a coupla weeks. The curator brain says they might do another one where I narrate scenes from World War Four where Allied leaders oil up and wrestle crocodiles if they can get enough grant money together. In the meantime I get shipped off to a living history museum in New Texylvania where I portray Agnes, a hardscrabble milk maid workin her way across the historic American frontier. "It used to take six whole hours to churn just one pail a butter," says me churnin some pretend butter. "Raaarrrrr!" says Buzz Aldrin crashin through the door. "Oh no, moon rabies, a ubiquitous hazard of the historic American frontier!" says me. We battle to the death. Everything seems to be goin okay til the FBI raid. It turns out butter is now classified as a Schedule I narcotic and I am under arrest on eighteen counts of racketeering, possession with intent to distribute and de-assaulting a police assaulter. I escape in the middle of the night with the help of an unfrozen caveman, an animatronic dinosaur and the robotic head of Alexander Hamilton. We make our way across the countryside disguised as a band of wandering minstrels til I find my way home. "Did you get the popcorn?" says Giblets. "Nah it got all snowy," says me. "You are useless like the buffalo!" says Giblets. So I'm headin back out to the store when an unseasonable monsoon hits an buries half the town in a mudslide. I am discovered ten thousand years later by a group a golden-helmed god-kings riding horses of flame. "Welcome, Fafnir, to the Age of Wonders!" says the god-kings. "Stupid age of wonders," says me. Labels: true adventures
posted by fafnir at 10:11 AM
by
 , at December 08, 2008 10:42 AM
if all that happened over Johnny Greenwood's extraordinary modernist score from There Will Be Blood, then it sounds almost exactly like how my Saturday night went. 'cept i had to dress up as Santa Claus and battle Mechagodzilla with a Pink Floyd VII laser light show behind us.
by
, at December 08, 2008 10:56 AM
Time was when someone would just go out for cigarettes and never come back. Stupid smoking laws, complicating everything.
by
, at December 08, 2008 12:20 PM
as well as the laws theres wolves, you gotta watch out for them pesky wolves they always steal my cigarettes
by
, at December 08, 2008 12:59 PM
"Oh no, moon rabies, a ubiquitous hazard of the historic American frontier!" says me. We battle to the death.
So it goes.
by
, at December 08, 2008 1:30 PM
by
, at December 08, 2008 3:49 PM
God-kings, eh? Did they have candy? Could they make a rock that was too big for them to lift and then lift it? Coz that's no fun.
by
, at December 08, 2008 9:27 PM
by
, at December 08, 2008 11:42 PM
"And that's how Jesus wrote the Constitution"
But only after a very careful study of Anthology de pie; Foreword from QuasiGalacticus the Not-Quite-So-Terrible
by
, at December 09, 2008 9:45 AM
by
, at December 09, 2008 12:59 PM
by
, at December 09, 2008 1:53 PM
"...back in the ol days we didn't have your fancy Senatrons and Congressbots," says me. "We hadda pick our presidents the ol fashioned way, with a money-eating contest.
Worth the price of admission. Admittedly, no admission was actually charged but...
by
, at December 09, 2008 9:31 PM
"We hadda pick our presidents the ol fashioned way, with a money-eating contest."
Well at least we do still pick our Senators that way. So that's sumpthing
by
, at December 12, 2008 4:26 PM
by
, at December 13, 2008 3:18 AM
I took my future grandmother to that Wandering Minstrel show and she said it was "A glittering night of the finest musical entertainment" and now you say it's a fake! All because you can't make your own popcorn!!!
Oh boo hoo hoo.
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, at December 13, 2008 1:34 PM
At first I thought the would-be presidents were engaged in a monkey-eating contest.
Would that mean that the future was horrible, or awesome? Or horrsome?
FBI raid? But it was only pretend butter, I remember an that's what you said! That's so unfair!
Maybe in the Future they won't be able to make the distinction between real and pretend, the way we do now... Oh. Wait a minute. We're not doin too well with that either. It must be evolution in process! Happenin right before our very amazed eyes.
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, at December 13, 2008 5:11 PM
Is this what they call a dystopic vision? Or a nested pair of dystopic visions? And if so, do they produce a dystopic vision egg?
Fafnir! Giblets! When I started writing my blog about four years ago, you guys were my inspiration ... I even pulled an all-nighter once to read everything from start to current.
-Then you had some weird extended hiatis ... I thought you guys were done all this time! My wife was just going through some of my first posts and pulled up your site -wow it's great to see you guys are up again! :)
Speaking of movies and snowstorms, don't miss
It's A Wonderful Life - The Final Scene http://tinyurl.com/25yzc7
Is this what they call a dystopic vision? Or a nested pair of dystopic visions? And if so, do they produce a dystopic vision egg?
Yes. They take turns brooding on it until the dystopic vignette hatches. They don't breed well in captivity, the only successful nesting pairs have been in wide-ranging dystopic visionaries. .
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, at December 20, 2008 12:59 AM
In the future, the local War-Lords will sit on plastic lawn chairs, like upon a throne, and eat from plastic plates, 'cuz the oil will be gone, and plastic stuff will no longer be made.
-Autonomous Unit
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, at December 22, 2008 12:20 AM
May the light
always find you on a dreary day. When you need to be home, may you find your way. May you always have courage to take a chance, And never find frogs in your underpants. Except for the M Lobster, of course. I wish him all the frogs he wishes. Happy Holidays
Is it just me or is the plucky crew of the SS Fafblog getting closer and closer to the giant fish and it's gigantic mouth? Sadly or stupidly the little crew is on lookout and not steering the ship? I'm troubled by the meaning of this image. Symbolic of what sort of Apocalypse is the maddening question? I can only hope the wise ones will enlighten us before we are swallowed by our doom. Or provide us with yummy pie that will make all our troubles vanish.
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, at December 29, 2008 6:46 PM
Dear Rapier - Your comment reminds me of a couple of things.
I read, in a book by Idries Shah, the proverbial saying, "You really own only those things that would be safe in a shipwreck." And then the "ship into fish" image goes back to Jonah, and more recently (but still before the incarnation of most of us currently walking the earth) Walt Disney's masterful realization of Collodi's Pinocchio. And I wonder - suppose a piece of paper in your fortune cookie said, "All your troubles will soon be over" - would this be good or bad?
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, at December 30, 2008 4:46 PM
Open thread for 2009 starts here.
================================= Mark your calendars for the transit of Venus (June 2012).
by
, at January 01, 2009 10:21 PM
by
, at February 11, 2009 12:17 PM
Is it just me or is the plucky crew of the SS Fafblog getting closer and closer to the giant fish and it's gigantic mouth? Sadly or stupidly the little crew is on lookout and not steering the ship? I'm troubled by the meaning of this image. Symbolic of what sort of Apocalypse is the maddening question? I can only hope the wise ones will enlighten us before we are swallowed by our doom. Or provide us with yummy pie that will make all our troubles vanish.
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