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Alloni Writes Gibberish

So how do I want to do this? Train of consciousness? Some sort of short story? Being Amusing? Depends on the direction I want to go. It's all choice, man. Remember that.

So. A Tale Told By An Idiot.

That's what I am. An amazingly intelligent idiot. Quite overgifted in the parts of intelligence which are Nifty. Quite undergifted in those parts which comprise wisdom. That'll come with time, I keep telling myself. Well. Aren't we cheerful this evening.

No, not really. I'm feeling down. Which, in turn, affects my writing, which feeds back into itself. Neverending spiral. By the end of This, I'll be contemplating hom/su icide. Just you wait.

Thinking about writing. Writing about thinking. About writing. Is there anything more dull? Chill. Output comes first. Good output comes later. Think of it as training a monkey. Despite B&W, the way to do it is in small steps - first reward the monkey when it picks up a rock, then reward it only when it picks up the right rock, then reward it for putting the right rock down in the right place, and before you know it you'll have a coal mine entirely run by monkeys. The foremonkey will be particularly selected for his cruelty so the minemonkeys will have someone to blame for the harsh conditions other than yourself. Every now and again, come on through, showering Monkey Treats on the populace, and make a big show of replacing the foremonkey and having him publically executed as an example. It won't work, of course. They're monkeys, after all. If they were able to learn from such things, they'd long ago have entirely replaced us in positions of power, and there are a few politicans left who aren't monkeys. I think Cheney is a vole.

Yes. I think I remember how to do this. Start small, build logically, and yank away from sanity at the last possible moment. Good. Good. Now repeat.

Um.

I could start scheduling my life more. Monday is Art Day, Tuesday is Video Game Day, Wednesday is Furious Masturbation Day, and so forth. It'd at least give me something new and spiffy to rebel against. Yeah. I have no troubles creating these plans. I even have no troubles following the plans. For a while. The problems come up... later. Hopefully much later.

I need some Official Funny Phrases. Things guaranteed to produce riotous laughter whenever used. No phrase can be guaranteed to do such things. Unless it's required by laws. Thus making it Official. Ideal. All I need to do is become highly placed in the government of the region and enact appropriate legislation. Of course, inevitably, with the new laws new crimes will appear, and speakeasies will sprout from nowhere where people can go to say the Official Funny Phrases without having to laugh. That's all right. I can use the issue to keep myself in power for years to come. Possibly even run a speakeasy or two myself.

Problem. If anyone says the Funny Phrases people will have to laugh. I want something individualized. It'll be significantly harder to pass a law requiring people to laugh only when I say certain phrases. Solution: more power. (Funny how that's the solution to every problem. No, not funny. What's the word I mean? Laudable. Yes.)

Um.

Somehow, I thought 15K would be easier than this.

"Writing is easy. All you have to do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until droplets of blood form on your forehead."

Well, genius. You've started this off. An internal competition. Trying to force yourself to produce something. Great. You've produced something. Now what?

Steal a page from someone else's book, of course. Write about old ladies rioting on 6th street. Or what to do if rabbits suddenly turned carnivorous. Or just start on a fantasy novel. You've read a million of them. It can't be that hard. Right?

The Wrath of Gore

"Al," she cried, "you've crossed the Plains of Minthar, beaten off the Horde of Marakesh, faced and defeated in personal combat the warrior-king of Teranoy, and narrowly escaped being taken by the death-curse of Almungus the Undying. What ever will you do now?"

"I'm going to Disneyland!"

No. Not that hard, he says through gritted teeth.

Who am I fooling? The ability to scribble my personal thoughts out on paper, while a glorious thing, isn't exactly what one might want others to read. Even amusing personal thoughts, as they sometimes are. Damn you and your monkeys, Nathan. No, in order to write, I need to write about something. Pick a thing. Any thing. My Experiences in Vietnam. How to Lose At Poker. Marigolds: The Forbidden Fruit. Bright College Days. The Wrath of Gore, if you must. The "real money" is in novels. Heh.

And the longer this goes on, the shorter the spates of writing get, and the longer the pauses-with-folded-arms get in between.

Well, don't think about it, then. Don't think about how-many-words-I-need-to-get-to-the-end. Don't think about how-few-ideas-I-have. Don't think about it. If you don't make the goal, the only penalty is failure to reach the goal. As for point b, remember the minermonkeys. First we get you to write anything. Then we get you to write Good anything. Or Evil anything, as suits your fancy.

So start small.

These three dust motes met in a bar. That's not what I meant and you know it. You're evading the issue again. So? Why does it matter if I write about the tale of the three dust motes? What causes that to be any less interesting than anything else I produce during this steadily more mindnumbing exercise? Dust motes have feelings too! Many's the time I've seen them in their intricate mating dances, as the male dust mote (dustmote? However. Not inclined to check at this point.) spreads his brightly colored plumage in an effort to attract mates, as the female dustmote watches and makes approving comments to her friends. Why they never make approving commentary to the male dustmote, I don't know. That one thing would cause the species to die out if it wasn't for the fact that dustmotes reproduce only from homosexual activity, and the female dustmotes eventually start ignoring the male plumage and pay lots of attention to the approving commentary from the female of the species. (Is more deadly than the male...)

Yes, this rich tapestry of dustmote life spreads out before us, here on Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. Today, Marlon Perkins will be venturing into the homeland of these marvelous creatures, the Great Bed. (Frank, you think they'll buy a show where M.P. just lies in bed, smokes pot, and talks about dustmotes? Why not? They bought the Lifecycle Of The Wild Odingadinga Special, didn't they? It'll be years before the Discovery Channel is discovered. They have no other source for their animal info but us. You think any of those worthless sacks of lard ever leave their house to check? They won't even need to leave their houses to check this one. Yes they will. They'll need to go out and buy a really good magnifying glass. It's easier just to squint at the dustmotes and make "Mmmm hmmmm!" noises. Just you watch.)

What else do they talk about in these Wild Kingdom things? Mating habits... ah, yes, feeding and lifecycles.

(Note to self: Don't keep checking the bytecount. A watched file never boils, after all. You're halfway there. Don't stop now.)

The dustmote has few natural predators, which accounts for the spread of these magnificent animals far outside their natural habitat. They have, however, been known to engage in war on each other on a grand scle - one of the few creatures in nature to do so. During these wars, thousands, if not millions of the fierce beasts rip the opposing side to shreds in a cannibalistic frenzy, which accounts for the way my books get covered in dust whenever I leave them in storage for too long. Also, they die of starvation, with their main food source gone - man.

Yes, dustmotes prey on humans for survival. Think of that when next you see one of these majestic creatures lazily floating on a sunbeam. Many unexplained disappearances are thus explained. A lone, bull dustmote, in the prime of life, sights a human sitting by itself in an empty room. The dustmote positions himself carefully, quietly sneaks closer, and with a mighty leap pounces on his unsuspecting prey! With his sharp fangs, the dustmote rips out the human's throat and howls his victory into the night! The bull dustmote's pack assembles to feed, and in minutes, the human is entirely devoured, leaving only the bones. And, given a few moments more, even these vanish down the unrelenting gullets of the ravenous dustmote pack. (A pack of dustmotes is known, in scholarly circles, as a "lot". As in, "See that big pile of dust over there, completely covering Mount Rushmore? That's a lot of dust!")

I think I've plundered this particular tangent as far as it'll go. (Yes, mixed metaphors. I know, I know, I'm an evil bastard, doomed to burn in the firey pits of hell for all time. I know, Beelzebub himself will mock me as I writhe in agony. I get it. That's okay. I've lost my train of thought anyhow. Not that I had one. Oh, sure, I can pretend that I know where I'm going with this, but honestly, I have as much idea what I'm going to type next as you do. You, in this case, of course, being me, since I sincerely doubt this involved exploration of How Much Crap Can I Write When I Have To will ever make it to the big screen, starring Janis Joplin as The Miller's Wife, and Ernest Borgnine as Nathan.)

That's 9,860 bytes there, according to my never-to-be-sufficiently- damned convenient byte-checker built Right In! to the word processor I'm using. Only 5,140 bytes left to go. Woo hoo. I can count. I can even count to 5,140, if I have to. Admittedly, it would fill up the remaining requirement. Still, I think it's against the spirit of the rules. Keep it in mind as a final tactic, should all else fail.

Yes, I also know it's less than 5,140 bytes now. I'm not going to check how much less. That way madness lies.

I lied. I checked. So torture me on the rack, why don't you.

Sudden urge to put fist through screen. Sudden urge repressed. Sudden urge to put fist through self. Sudden urge pondered. How would that be accomplished, exactly? Could I really get enough leverage to force my fist all the way through? Not in a punch, but if I attached some sort of spike to my fist I might be able to push it on through. Bears further consideration. Not now, though. Now is the time for all good people to give their lives in the service of their country. Then I will reign supreme! MUAHAHAHAHA enough of the evil laughter. It's cliche. You can burp evilly if that strikes your fancy, though. Ahem. BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAP! Much better. Doesn't quite have the same Zing to it, but such can be worked around.

Stare at writings. Twiddle thumbs. Ponder how much time remains. Ponder how much writing remains. Remind self told self not to ponder such things. Ponder pondering. Ponder calling family. Ponder further such delaying tactics. Deny self ability to delay. Feel proud of self for moment. Recall that is first time, and only true test of willpower is to continue into infinity. Fell less proud of self.

Goal: improve writing. Tactic: force self to right. With, of course, the help of my able-bodied assistant, currently standing beside me, flexing his pecs, and grinning at me unpleasantly. Large bat held at ready. If I should falter, he is under explicit instructions to apply the bat to the side of my neck and cackle gleefully as it sucks out my life juices. (Yes, I mean blood. I'm trying to fill up the page with meaningless verbiage so I can get up and get myself a slice of pizza. Do you mind? Yes. How will this improve writing? First, there must exist something to improve. A hit. A very palpable hit.)

Still, there needs to be a critiquing process of some kind. I'm going to need to hand this to someone who will read it and give me their honest opinion ("It sucks big donkey dick") with added commentary on areas in which they feel I wasn't up to par ("I particularly hate the part where it makes no sense. You know, the beginning, middle, and end?") as well as suggestions for future improvements ("Have you considered a career in dental hygeine?"). Which, at this point, means the person I'm engaged in mutual self-flagellation with - Nathan. A writing group would be an even better idea, if it wasn't for the facts that a) there are very few people whose opinions I trust in such matters, b) I'm not really going anywhere with this, and for it to be Real Writing it needs to have a goal of some kind, and c) I'm scared shitless of being exposed for the helpless fraud I feel at times like this. Eh. It's all right. There is always dental hygeine.

Which would be a marvelous way to end this if it wasn't for the fact that I have, um, 1,430 bytes left to go. Which is significantly better than I thought, I might add. Also significantly better than 15,000. All I need is another couple of good no. Nathan has just informed me that the idea is less to come up with a sufficient quantity of verbiage and more to Just Keep Writing for a sufficient period of time. My beautiful victory is snatched away from me by the unfeeling hand of fate! Woe! Woe is me! Wretched and alone, I sink to the ground and curse the heavens! I am goth, hear me whimper.

If I now start writing things like, "so now I only have 19 minutes left to go," just kill me, will you? Burn me at the stake or something. The exact means are left up to your own desires. If you have a fetish for leather, by all means, indulge. Just not on me, you sick freak. Just say no, that's been my motto since childbirth. Yes, I gave birth some years back. A bouncing baby boy. Adopted by the Flynts soe years back, I heard, though I don't know what's become of him since. Still, every now and again I wonder what my life would have been if I'd kept sweet Larry. Larry, that's what I named him, after his mother. She was a stripper in Toledo, and I knew as soon as I met her that she was the one, she was Miss Right, and that a couple drinks in her and I wouldn't be going home alone that evening, and I was right on all counts. Blew me off the next day and headed for Jamaica, but I've never forgotten her. I kept her dogtags as a memento. Someday, someday I know she'll come back to me. Probably begging for forgiveness, too. Yeah. And not only that, she'll use her legions of flying monkeys to help me acheive my lifelong dream of becoming Assistant Undersecretary to the Assistant Governor of Wyoming. Yes. Definitely.

Of course, I know that'll never happen. For one thing, I really don't have the qualifications for that kind of exalted position. I mean, not the Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary to the Assistant Governor of Wyoming. No, we're talking the AU to the AG of W himself. Lot of money flows through that office, and those monkeys and I DAMN YOU NATHAN! DAMN YOU! IF IT WASN'T FOR YOU, MONKEYS WOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN INCORPORATED INTO MY INTERNAL LIST OF BASIC FUNNY THINGS! DAMN YOU!

Catfish. Yes. Flying catfish. I'll start using that instead. Has precedent. Holy Zarquon singing fish, for example. A phrase used by the royal family of Britain since time immemorial.

There. I'm done. I will go fold clothes now.

Or not. Not yet dry. Can't use that as excuse.

Notes for the future. If I could do some variation of this for other things that I need practice on, such as juggling and Art, not to mention tk, that would be ideal. Having someone else around to keep self in check. Hmm. I'd need a partner for such things. Long hmmm. Also, I'm eventually going to have to start writing nongibberish. Or, at the very least, amusing gibberish.

Enough! Go play!

Final note: remind me, if I ever again hear someone say some variation on, "You're a writer? Beats working," to beat them about the head and shoulders with my cane until my arms are tired.