JRR Tolkien as written by Hunter S. Thompson, from The Hobbit
Gandalf moved over the hill, his nerves at the breaking point, dreading the final confrontation with the lightweight hobbit who had too much power over him. "Good morning," he said, feeling the scratch of too many vodka martinis finally catching up with him.
Bilbo was a low-rent punk...living on the edge since he was old enough to walk. He'd been up all night drinking Singapore slings with the Gamgees, and his eyeballs felt like twin beavers about ready to build a dam between his ears. "Good morning," he said, stuffing his pipe again, grasping at straws to calm him down, wondering whether the Gamgee boy had run off with his twenty dollars.
The old wizard swatted absently at a hallucination, trying his damnedest to focus on the diminutive little prick who'd probably been out all night buggering the local schoolchildren. "Look," he said, "pay attention. This is important. I need you to go over these mountains, see, and do something about this dragon. He's a dragon for fuck's sake. Been tormenting the land about the mountain for years; time he cashed his check. Are you willing? Have you got the nerves?"
Bilbo's first sane thought was, what's in it for me? But his inborn greed and instinct for self-preservation won out, coupled with delirious dreams of what might be if he winged it across desert miles with an expense account and a wizard in his pocket. He said, "You'll provide the dwarves, of course. And I'll need mescaline, lots of it...."
I woke up this mornin' with you in my bed I woke up this mornin' ya, on my shoulder was yo' head Oh, I woke up this mornin'! You was lookin' so sweet but that 'larm clock went off and you jumped up onto your feet Man, I gots the breakin' day blues I'll tell ya baby that the dark don't put me to bed so could you tell me why the day fills me with dread ohhhh... the dark don't put me to bed but man, oh man, the day fills me with dread I'm tellin' ya, the night's not why I go to bed but I'm scared of the day cuz of the things the light has said I got the breakin' day blues I know when the sun comes up, you're gonna leave me, Mamma Sure as light to day when the sun comes up you leave Ahhhh!!! sure as the light to day You work so hard honey I just don't know what to say Ya! Ya! Ya! Ahhh... I got the breakin' day blues... I woke up this mornin' I put on my shoes Don't know what to tell ya I got the walkin' man's blues...
Gandalf (37th level Wizard, 466 hit points), crested the hill. Before him he sees a small humanoid creature, less than a meter tall, bipedal. The being is dressed in mainly green and yellow clothes and has hairy feet. It speaks to Gandalf in common tongue, "Good morning."
JRR Tolkien as written by The Count of Sesame Street, from The Hobbit.
Gandalf crested the hill, taking one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine steps. He approached the hobbit, who was blowing one, two, three, four, five, six, seven smokerings that rose in the air and floated over The Hill. "Good morning," said the hobbit to Gandalf. "How are you on this fine day?"
"I am looking for someone to join one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen dwarves on a quest over the Misty Mountains."
Dr. Seuss as written by Mario Puzo (The Godfather), from Green Eggs and Ham.
The tension increased as the Don stirred, the silence not broken by a twittering bird. He raised his head, his chins a'flappin, Towards the hitman whose hits were slacking. "You can shoot him in his house, on a train, or with his spouse. On a plane, in a moat, I don't care if he's doing a goat. You will kill him, Sam The Hitman, You shall kill him, blam blam blam!" Sam was nervous, as you could see. The stain was spreading from where he'd peed. His socks were runny, to be away he wishes; Better that than sleep with red and blue fishes. So Sam went out, his head hung low To do the deed Don said was owed. Sam did not like to be a hit man, "I do not like it, though Sam I am." The slaying was quick, the cat shot down. His large black caddy was filled with rounds. The Don was pleased, paid Sam his money, Now Sam slings hash and green eggs, so runny.
Kudos to humbabba for such an original node
Dick Huntsman: Oh...uh..uh...yeah..uh...uh... you're ...uh...uh...the only ...uh...uh ... one ....uh...uh....for...uh...uh... me..uh...uh...Queeny.
Queeny: Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh....yessss.....I love to watch your thing slide in and out of my thing in my magic mirror....oh..uh..uh.. ye-e-e-e-esss!
Queeny: (aside to mirror) Mi-i-i-rr-o-o-or...who's the ...ohhhh god oh god oh god....the sluttiest of the-e-e-e-e-m.. oh god ... oh oh.. yes..all!?
Mirror:
I CANNOT LIE QUEENY - THOUGH YOUR EXCESSES COULD UNDOUBTEDLY CAUSE ENTIRE BASKETBALL TEAMS TO WHOLEHEARTEDLY EMBRACE BORN AGAIN CHRISTIANITY, THERE IS ANOTHER WHO HAS NOT ONLY SLEPT WITH DICK HUNTSMAN, THE STABLEBOY, YOUR COACHMAN, FIVE OF YOUR HANDMAIDENS, THE CHAPLAIN, YOUR PRIZE STALLION 'BUCKY', YOUR PARENTS, AND AN ENTIRE NEIGHBOURING KINGDOM, BUT WHO ALSO HAS AN AUTOGRAPHED LOCKET PICTURE OF RON JEREMIAH.
Queeny: Wh-a-a-a-a-a-t!!?...oh god oh god oh god... tell me....uh...uh..uh....yess!!...her name!!
HER NAME IS BLEACHED BLONDE, OH QUEENY.
...we cut now to a later passage. Queeny makes her way to her magicking room (during the trip up two short flights of stairs she is unable to avoid rampant joinings with her chaimberlain, several guardsmen, and a very excitable Welsh Retriever.). There she places enchantments of a dark and erotic nature upon a 12 inch latex "cleaning aid" - which she later gifts to Bleached Blonde (after several more carnal encounters against walls and under furniture).
...Weird and extremely liquid things happen to Bleached Blonde. She magickally fornicates her way (for no apparent reason) to the home of 7 men of short stature, but mighty endowment.
Bleached Blonde: ooo..ooo..oooh....you..uh..uh..uh..short guys..oh..godohgod ohgodohgod..sure, like ...yesyesyesyes... know how t-o-o-o-o-o par-ar-ar-ar-ty!!!
Short Guy 1: Achooooh!!....aww yeah baby...you like that.
Short Guy 2: Hey..you!!...I want me some of that..move over! What the!!? You're asleep you dick!!
Short Guy 3: ZZZZZzzzzzz...what? what?...oh MY!..
Short Guy 4: Hee hee..haaa haa...ohhh yeah...tee hee...hardy harr....ain't this great!!?
Other Short Guys: uhh/oh/yeah/gaaawd/woohooo/yesyesyes/ohbabyohbaby/aaaahhhh
Queeny (opens door, poses dramatically in her full length fishnet body-suit): Dwarves dwarves dwarves...wanna thing me up the thing?
Dick Huntsman (climbs down from the chandelier): Queeny...I was...just....eerrrrrr....
Queeny: stow it Dick...you know where...big-boy!
Welsh Retriever:Woof!
Cthulhu: I MUCH PREFER THIS TO MY USUAL SOWING SEEDS OF UNFATHOMABLE DREAD
Bleached Blonde: Cthulhy baby...get those busy tentacles back over here....
Populace of Neighbouring Kingdom: awww yeah.
once up on a time there was a magicman coming down the road and very nice magicman it was too and it came across little bilbo in the middle of the road and sat down. Hello little bilbo it said with a sigh all ticketyboo and then it proceeded to tell him a story, a long story, with dwarves and hobbits and orcs and trolls and gold in it lots of gold, and the hobbit was entranced with the vision of the sight of the magicman and the gesticulating and the ring with the words and the gold.
then not much happened for a time a small time a yabba-dabba-doo time.
when it was later there was a green person small and green yes green preciousssss and he wanted the ticketyboo ring to-whit that the hobbitses had in its pocketses. but the magicman had told little hobbo bilbo that it was the ring the one ring yesss and the green persons didn't gets it, precious, magic, kazam, bippityboppityboo.
then much much time past time passed time passè-d with the words talking the words talking in small fast rhymes that suddenly he was too dizzy to read so he began to think about the rivers and the barrels and the waters as he did so and it went something like this in his head
the rivers of the middleearth flow, they flow all of them into places and from places and through mountains and moria and hills and elandil and all and beneath the two true towers, the blue towers. thirteen rivers meet at fifteen points and exchange seventeen million gallonses of water, of water, and they all must meet for there is one ring, one ring to find them, one ring one ring not two not bracelets luv but one ring. then they meet near the land of the brown who was a necromancer, or the necromancer who was brown until he went bad, and there was one for mortal men doomed to die but some for the dwarven king in his halls of stone of stone yes stone like all was built but the ents could break the stone HOOM and when they did the water came rushing through in rivulets streams and rills.
one ring to find them. the hobbitses needed a good pint by now he did yes sir, and naturally near the rivers (from the lakes with the barrels) there was a fine pub a good tavern must've been old butterburs, yes, that's right, and
there was a dragon in the story boys and girls a big worm a wyrm with a brain and infravision which later went on to be a staple of ad and d yes. the story tells of how he went up to the dragon then the hobbit did
what a fine dragon you must be my goodness magnificent
and the dragon said why yes who goes there that's very perceptive of you little thief and where are you and it turned its glowing eyes to him
but the hobbit was quick and slick and invisible (quite a trick) and then he had some gold a little gold and Sting and a small mail and gold and the Wyrm came after them but the chink was there and the black arrow flew and
IN THE DARKNESS BIND THEM.
If, in the unimaginable length of time since the formation of this, our unknowable and limitless universe, there has been accidental and sometimes horrifying changes in the forms of the many and varied creatures which roam our planet; if there is, as cannot be argued against, a constant and unending struggle amongst the creatures on our planet for their very survival (be they shuggoth or Arkham professor); then, considering the unimaginably vast and unknowable relations that creatures of our planet have with each other, it seems highly unlikely that there never would at some point be a subtle, possibly infinitesimal, variation in the character of a creature which dwells upon our world that would unimaginably help the individual creature.
If this is the truth, as unknowably as that difficult to describe phenomenon is known, then it is highly probable that such a variation might assist the creature in finding a mate and procreating, possibly in some dark and unimaginable hole in the earth, and thus through the principle of inheritance it would be passed on to its small, squirming offspring. This principle, in the interests of keeping the term which I shall use to describe it brief, I have decided to call by the highly logical and understandable name of "Natural Selection". From pg. 127 of the First Edition.
(From page 1-2, "Surival Stresses")
Who today can really claim to understand those emotions associated with that cunning myth, the "will to live," as thoroughly as they understand the maintenance of their physical possessions? . . . When the world turns cold and cruel, the real man -- the man of tomorrow, and those he protects (out of pity or that luxury of the highest, love) -- the real man is both a threat and a device of his own blossoming will to power.
The man of ressentiment gives little thought to considerations which plague the noble and free spirit, such as:
1. "How have I acted in past situations?" -- And his pride takes a bite . . .
2. "What secret fear or strength is betrayed by these signs, feelings, expressions, or reactions in myself, my comrades, my enemies?" . . .
3. "How much pain can I take before I am torn apart? For what does not kill me, makes me stronger!"
4. "How can I best subject myself to an economy of self -- maintaining and drawing on my own strengths efficiently and effectively, controlling myself?"
5. "How can I best play upon the strengths and weaknesses of those around me? How can I best maintain this regime until the danger has passed?"
Yet, the knowledge of just these factors -- as the Delphic oracle pronounced, "γνωθι σεαυτον" -- is of prime importance to the survival of this, our higher type, and bears directly on his ability to take the punches which the world may see fit to throw him: -- fear, angst, pain, injury, illness, cold and heat, thirst, hunger, fatigue, exhaustion, boredom, and above all loneliness -- for this higher man often walks alone.
See Constance.
See Mellors and Constance.
Mellors and Contance are fucking.
See Mellors fuck.
See Constance fuck.
Fuck, Constance, fuck!
Etc...
Glory be to God for cancerous things - For tumours of mottled purple as a rotting cow; For murder, rape, war, famine, kids killing kids, the baby who can't swim; Elm disease-ridden chestnut tree falls; tearing off finches' wings; Landscape gutted and raped--tear, burrow, and plough; And hollow eyed people, their melanomas malignant, their hope dim. Genocide in the name of religion, how strange; Whatever is good, is swiftly destroyed (who knows how?) With life, death; love, death; laughter, faces grim; God brings forth children beset with disease and mange: Fuck him.
We had to learn some of Hopkins' "poems" at school. He is one of the most awful, serial abusers of the English language I have ever encountered. Never content simply to use the word "nice", he has to say things like "dappled, joy-speckled honey blossom" and crap like that. This has been a long time coming - if you're watching me, Manley, from Heaven, your poems are shit. Nobody likes you. Note: I've kept the rhyming structure intact, otherwise it would have deviated too far from the original and become just a poorly written stream of bad language (like most of my other nodes).
"Stop shaking that bed at once!" said Mrs MacNeil.
"I won't!" said Little Miss Possessed. "I won't and I shan't!"
"Oh bother," said Mrs MacNeil. "I suppose now I shall have to call Mr Exorcist."
Mr Exorcist arrived, and was astonished to see how bad Little Miss Possessed had got. Extraordinarily bad!
"Now then," said Mr Exorcist. "Let's stop all this nonsense, shall we?"
"Your mother sucks cocks in hell!" retorted Little Miss Possessed, before vomiting in Mr Exorcist's face.
She was a very, very possessed little girl.
I'd been feeling a bit out of sorts lately, but I was dashed if the doctors could find a thing wrong with me. Just get yourself outside of some food and have a good night's sleep, they'd say. All very well and good, but if a chap can't sleep, that's no help, is it?
I sighed.
"You know what you need," said Tyler, kind of manifesting himself.
"No, what's that?"
"You need to give me a good sharp blow to the ear, that's what."
"I say! Are you absolutely off your rocker?"
"Very probably," Tyler replied. "Now come on, be a good fellow, and nobble me one. Be quick about it, I've got bun cricket with Tuppy at the club in half an hour."
Much later, I sat in the chair on the top floor of the Dorchester with Tyler pointing a pistol at me. He pulled back the hammer, and I remember thinking "Not even Jeeves could get me out of this one..."
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