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Jul. 13th, 2010
(no subject)
Jul. 13th, 2010 03:25 pmNot long after submitting my previous post the fire alarm went off in my building so I had to hoof it down ten stories by stairs, by the end of which I decided that I felt extraordinarily crappy (and honestly I'd felt off since I woke up this morning) and was just way too cross to spend time in the company of my fellow humans*, so I called the rest of the day a sick day, came home, and took a several hour nap. I'm feeling much better, though I'm keenly aware I've only delayed, not escaped, the unenviable task that set my head to 'sploding this morning.
Anyhow, now awake and slightly less ogrish, I'm just f'ing around on the intertubes, and I am highly amused to note that apparently Zombie Cabana Boy is reminiscent of James Joyce:
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* because I didn't want to be rude to them, or because I expected them to only aggravate me further? You decide!
Anyhow, now awake and slightly less ogrish, I'm just f'ing around on the intertubes, and I am highly amused to note that apparently Zombie Cabana Boy is reminiscent of James Joyce:
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* because I didn't want to be rude to them, or because I expected them to only aggravate me further? You decide!
(no subject)
Jul. 13th, 2010 10:26 pmOkay, yes, that "writes like" meme is COMPLETELY F*CKING BONKERS, because I followed Zak's lead and plugged Gregory Corso's Bomb* into it and it told me it's just like William Shakespeare!
Clearly, if Shakespeare and Corso are that similar, you won't be able to identify which quotes belong to which:
Hmmmm.
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* the worst poem ever published, so bad it wraps right around the bad spectrum back into good again. Best read out loud in a theatrical tone, in the company of friends of a forgiving nature.
Clearly, if Shakespeare and Corso are that similar, you won't be able to identify which quotes belong to which:
| A. | B. |
| I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. | to die by cobra is not to die by bad pork |
| To sleep, perchance to dream | a barnacled wreath on the moon-squid's head |
| The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. |
Turtles exploding over Istanbul |
| Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. |
Before you the wimpled Past behind you the hallooing Future |
| Cry "Havoc!" and let slip the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial. |
You are a paean an acme of scream a lyric hat of Mister Thunder |
Hmmmm.
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* the worst poem ever published, so bad it wraps right around the bad spectrum back into good again. Best read out loud in a theatrical tone, in the company of friends of a forgiving nature.