The Totally Random Bullshit Thread. (sorta NSFW)

[Meridae'n]

I can't fish for shit.

[CCHSDawg]

Pubes; a very fun word to use while watching your friends laugh with some food or drink in their mouth. Be sure not to be in front of the friend, to avoid incoming projectiles.

[hambone]

You one bad mamma-jamma, slap me some skin, funky groove machine!

[laxative]

Crystal Methodist

[Macheath]

I saw a werewolf drinking a Pina Colada at Trader Vic's. His hair was wasabi.

When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie that's Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.

[crow_daw]

Movies with a religious foundation usually don't pan over very well..................unless they're about those wacky Amish, and then the possibilities are endless.

[CCHSDawg]

Cornbread: Ain't nothing wrong with that!

[crow_daw]

"Hey, is that a ten foot long worm in your pocket or are you just happy to see m..............HOLY SHIT, LOOK OUT!!!!!!!!!!!!"

[MacGnG]

[size=6.9]*V*A*G*I*N*A*[/size]

[thefatbaby]

I am but one mere fart away from taking over this world.

[Fly]

.....she then says"when do you want me to take out my false teeth?"

that's when i realized.....she wasn't all cracked up to being what my buddy's(mother fuckers that they are by the way)said she was.

[micah67]

I'm empathic and I talk FOR my dog. I'm usually right. Often she's not happy about having her thoughts out in the open for others to know. Then I have to tell people she said that, too.

[analog]

Originally posted by Meridae'n
I can't fish for shit.

I wouldn't fish for shit.

I'm wondering if any of you have ever raided the lettuce-crisper in the wee hours on the morning, only to find that a small animal, perhaps a titmouse, has nestled between the butter and the mustard. Get back to me on that. But, please, when you answer, don't use words... use the magic of interpretive dance.

If seven women requested permission to form a bowling league within your tri-state area, which smell would best describe them? I'm thinking butterscotch, but I've been wrong about this sort of thing before.

Complete the following sentence by choosing a, b, c, d, or e:

My grandpa has always had a fondness for ___________.

(a) eating large quantities of rice and then walking to the supermarket, nude, and urinating on all the
ripe cantaloupes.

(b) making dirty

(c) popping off his wooden leg and sending it via federal express to various government institutions.

(d) throwing sticks at passing jets.

And by the way...
Who left the half-eaten apples in my broom closet? I suspect Enrique the head-monkey, although he denies any knowledge of the incident and only yells "bill goes to church" everytime I question him about it. I will soon be giving him candy and a popsicle.

- analog

p.s.- ducks.

[MrFlux]

TWIST

[Stiltzkin]

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accessing...
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accessing...
3249sdf0-we

wer9023l;sdfl;3qwr09sdf;ksd;a=--3rewe-sdfwlrel934234wsdf
wer9sdklfmwerxcvrwg9bj weriops
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access denied.

login: w234kofd
password: ***************************************

authenticating...

38924.... sdfosdfio23-234-wfjwf...
2489dfg.32.4324.gfd.eg41.1.2.4.dfg.ergf.345.tre.dfg.qwe...

incorrect password and/or login.

You will now be redirected to...

the house on the hill where the mole people live and no one ever sleeps only because that is how they can live if and when they are alive and not always sleeping and this is how the world began and shall end even in the days of yore when all was young and all that kind of stuff that doesn't even really make sense if you think about and and and and and yes this is the stuff that sometimes is said and all that other kind of stuff that isn't what you think it is but sometimes is and never isn't and what the fuck am I saying it's just the same bullshit as before but even more of it because the more pointless and random you get the more you like jazz and yes I mean that even though I am just spewing out random thoughts this is like the jazz of literature just spitting out random crap that comes to me as I go isn't that basically what jazz is just in music form that's kind of why I don't like jazz because it's not planned out I like things to have structure and to be definite and in a sense predictable and I guess also because I don't like surprises despite what you think some people don't believe that I don't like surprises but I really don't and even when someone does try to surprise me I'm not surprised because I usually don't care does that mean that I am apathetic could be who knows man I don't care anywho what the hell am I still doing here just typing I'm just wasting time but oh well it's not like I was doing anything important before I started typing this out I guess it's good to listen to jazz every now and then when you're feeling really random and want something that moves fast and doesn't really go anywhere except up and down over and over maybe that's what it is isn't it just going up and down over and over and over and what the hell am I saying I'm just nuts I'll be surprised if anyone will even read my whole post I'd be bored as hell if I was someone reading this post and I would've just moved on to the next post already our would have started my own response already or just have gone to another part of TFP. ::sigh:: so should I keep going I mean it's not like I have anything better to do no wait I could be reading "The Moon is a Harsh Mistress" right now I've only read around 30 pages and it's pretty good so far I could also be exercising right now or doing something constructive maybe this is constructive in it's own particular way man I don't think I've ever typed so much with out stopping except for the occassional typo that I make and go back to correct but that only slows me down slightly and yes I know there's several typos in here despite the fact that I'm trying not to make them it's just that they're inevitable and umm... go here http://maddox.xmission.com/ or go somewhere else the dude who runs the site looks like Tom Green and he thinks so too and umm... yeah my friend "Jack" says "and umm..." a lot because when he's talking he'll often drift off into space and forget what he's saying but he's really smooth around the ladies and for that I commend him but he kinda needs to umm... yeah I forgot and so the world will end in two hours and forty six minutes and then I don't know what I'm talking about once again ok I am starting to sound childish and I should probably shut up but I feel like typing so much that the RAM gets full but then I'd have to type millions of lines of text and I just don't think I have enough time for that or do I who knows dude or dudette depending on your gender and umm... and umm... I forogot again ok so what should I do now just keep going or just stop man I don't know what I'm going to do should I just keep going I don't know what I should do I'm kinda just stuck typing here and I feel like I can't stop what the hell ahh this is crazy man I've never done this before I'm going to have to do this again the Tom Green show is on right now they have a new show cool I guess Tom Green is kind of cool but he's also a moron and umm... yes and then the umm... the world will explode ok I already said something to that effect ok I think I'll go watch the Tom Green show now bye

[crow_daw]

Originally posted by analog


I'm wondering if any of you have ever raided the lettuce-crisper in the wee hours on the morning, only to find that a small animal, perhaps a titmouse, has nestled between the butter and the mustard. Get back to me on that. But, please, when you answer, don't use words... use the magic of interpretive dance.

If seven women requested permission to form a bowling league within your tri-state area, which smell would best describe them? I'm thinking butterscotch, but I've been wrong about this sort of thing before.

Complete the following sentence by choosing a, b, c, d, or e:

My grandpa has always had a fondness for ___________.

(a) eating large quantities of rice and then walking to the supermarket, nude, and urinating on all the
ripe cantaloupes.

(b) making dirty

(c) popping off his wooden leg and sending it via federal express to various government institutions.

(d) throwing sticks at passing jets.

And by the way...
Who left the half-eaten apples in my broom closet? I suspect Enrique the head-monkey, although he denies any knowledge of the incident and only yells "bill goes to church" everytime I question him about it. I will soon be giving him candy and a popsicle.

- analog

p.s.- ducks.

analog, the world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.


Do you know the one they call Roy?
Of course you don't, he is a great enchanter.
He dances on the sand.

THERE MAY BE ONLY ONE HIGHLANDER!!

P.S.- Peaches make me fart.

[Fremen]

*smacks* a ho for the Support the Bones Fund.

[analog]

Sometimes, when I lay here perfectly still, I can transport myself to a different place and time using my mind. As I arrive at my new dream destination, I gaze upon my reflection in a small pond.
"Shit, " I would say to myself, "my fly's open."

[analog]

I'm very upset with Archie. Betty is CLEARLY the optimum choice over Veronica.

Scooby Doo is my hero... even if he meddles occasionally.

Fred Flinstone was giving it to Wilma AND Betty, cave-man style.

Speaking of ancient sex, I wonder if the first people on earth knew what was going on when someone knocked up a cave-girl... I mean, first she gets HUGE and then she starts screaming and something squishy and screaming comes out from between her legs- where you're used to putting your "club"- I wonder if anyone ever freaked out and just bashed the shit out of it.

If carrots got you high, rabbits would be FUCKED up. - [Mitch Hedburg]

Pudding.

[MrFlux]

O_o O_O o_O
O_o O_O o_O
O_o O_O o_O
O_o O_O o_O
O_o O_O o_O

invasion of the googlyeyes!

[Stiltzkin]

:: peers out:: ::coughs:: ::sneezes:: ::wheezes:: ::farts:: ::walks away::

[gloveshot3]

ya want bullshit, I'll give ya total fucking bullshit:
DUBYA

[H12]

Don't let anybody fool you: Michael Jackson loves children. Loves them. Absolutely just loves them. In fact, I don't think I can emphasize enough that he 110% completely loves children of all ages. If he could make anymore love for his passion with children than he already has, it'd be safe to say that he would spend all day making love as much as he could.

[thefatbaby]

::::;;::::;;;;;;;;::{}{[[[::::'''"""'::;;:;::;:::: Morse Code....make of it what you will....but it may open pandora's box......BEWARE!!!!

[DonnieBoy]

Now we're coming up on this really wierd part of my dream
You know, the part where I know how to tapdance
But I can only do it while wearing golf shoes
Then I'm walking again with the girl who can talk with her eyes
This time she says, "I think you see what I'm saying"
Then just before I woke up, it started to rain in southern california
Ooom poppa chikamaga wana sing gow
Do lomma sinnigama mana ching jow
Inimana choogamaga wana sing gee
Finimana foonimana one is now free

[bundy]

The Greeks who sailed for the Hellespont from Mycale, after being delayed for a time by foul winds at Lectum, reached Abydos and found, contrary to expectation, that the bridges had already been broken up - to destroy them had, indeed, been the chief purpose of their coming. In these circumstances Leotychides and his Peloponnesians thought that the best thing to do was to return to Greece, but the Athenians under their commander Xanthippus determined to stay where they were and make an attempt upon the Chersonese. Accordingly, after the departure of the Peloponnesians, they crossed thither from Abydos and laid seige to Sestos. This town was the most strongly fortified place in the district, and as soon as the news got about that the Greek fleet had arrived in the Hellespont, men from neighbouring towns came into it to refuge; amongst them was the Persian Oeobazus, who came from Cardia, where he had stored the cables used in the construction of the bridges. The town was held by its own native Aeolians, but there were Persians in it too, and a large number of their allies and depentants. The governor of the district for Xerxes was one Artayctes - a terrible fellow, as clever as he was corrupt. By a pretty piece of deception, during Xerxes' march to Athens, he had got possession of the treasures of Prostesilaus, son of Iphiclus, which were at Elaeus in the Chersonese, where the tomb of that hero stands, surrounded by a plot of sacred ground. There was much here of great value, gold and silver cups, bronze, rich garments, and other things which had been offered at the tomb, and Artayctes stole it all. Actually, he tricked Xerxes into giving it to him, by saying: 'Master, there is the house of a Greek here who made war on your country and met his death which he deserved. Give me his house - it will be a lesson to men hereafter not to do as he did.' It was only to be expected that htese words should easily persuade Xerxes to give him the 'house' - for he no suspicion of what was really in Artayctes mind. Artayctes was right, in a certain sense, in saying that Prostesilaus made war on the king's country; for the Persians consider that the whole of Asia belongs to them, and to their reigning king. So the request was granted, and Artayctes removed the treasures to Sestos and turned over the sacred enclosure to agriculture - and, what is more, whenever he visited Elaeus on subsequent occasions he used to have intercourse with women in the sanctuary.
So now Artayctes was blocked up in Sestos by the Athenians. He was not prepared for a siege and had not expected the arrival of a Greek army, which consequently caught him unawares. As the seige dragged on into the autumn, the Athenians, impatient at their long absence from home and their failure to take the place, pressed their generals to abandon the enterprise, but they refused to do so until either the town fell or they were recalled by the government in Athens. So the troops had to put up with their hardships. Inside the town, the besieged were already reduced to the direst extremity - even to boiling and eating the leather straps of their beds. When these, too, gave out, the Persians, Artayctes and Oeobazus, made their escape under the cover of darkness, letting themselves down from the wall at the back of the town, where the enemy lines were weakest; and on the following day the men of the Chersonese signalled to the Athenians from the bastions to let them know what had happened, and opened the gates. The greater part of the Athenian force thereupon went in pursuit of the fugitives, while the remainder took possession of the town.

[Sion]

Hand me that piano.

Please saw my legs off.

Do what you want to the girl, but leave ME alone!

baseball fruit bat, nanoo nanoo, 24839374638, plus or minus aardvarks, but if, and only if, the zebras wear panties.

[bundy]

Oeobazus managed to reach Thrace; but there he was caught by the Apsinthian Thracians who offered him, as their manner is, as a sacrifice to Pleistorus, a local deity. The men with him were killed in another way. Those who accompanied Artayctes left the town later, and their small party was overtaken by their pursuers not far from Aegospotami. They made a stout fight of it, but all of them, in the end, were either killed or taken prisoner. The prisoners were tied up and taken back to Sestos, Artayctes and his son amongst them. There is a story current in the Chersonese that one of the prisoners' guards was roasting salt fish when the fish began to jump and struggle on the coals, as if they had been freshly caught. Everyone came crowding round to see this extraordinary sight; but Artayctes called the sentry who was cooking the fish and told him not to be alarmed. "This prodigy,' he said, 'has no reference to you, my Athenian friend. It applies to me: Protesilaus of Elaeus is telling me that though he is as dead as dried fish, he yet has power from the gods to punish the man who wrongs him. Look now; I am willing to pay him a hundred talents in compensation for the treasure i took from the shrine, and i will pay the Athenians two hundred, on condition that they spare my life and the life of my son.'
Such was Artayctes offer; but Xanthippus, the Athenian commander, refused to accept it. The people of Elaeus wanted their revenge for Protesilaus, and urged his death; moreover Xanthippus' own feelings were in sympathy with them. So they took him to the spit of land where Xerxes' bridge had been - or, as some say, to the plank and hung him up. His son was stoned to death before his eyes. This done, the fleet set sail for Greece with all sorts of stuff on board, including the cables of the bridges, which the Athenians proposed to dedicate as an offering in their temples. And that was all that happened during the course of the year.
This Artayctes who suffered death by crucification had an ancestor named Artembares; and he it was who made the Persians a proposal, which they readily accepted and passed on to Cyrus. 'Since,' they said, 'Zeus has given empire to the Persians, and among individuals to you, Cyrus, by your conquest of Astyages, let us leave this small and barren country of ours and take possession of a better. There are plenty to choose from - some near, some further off; if we take one of them, we shall be admired more than ever. It is the natural thing for a sovereign people to do; and when will there be a better opportunity than now, when we are the masters of many nations and all Asia?'
Cyrus did not think much of this suggestion; he replied that they might act upon it if they pleased, but added the warning that, if they did so, they must prepare themselves to rule no longer, but to be ruled by others. 'Soft countries,' he said, 'breed soft men. It is not the property of any one soil to produce fine fruits and good soldiers too.' The Persians had to admit that this was true and that Cyrus was wiser than they; so they left im, and chose rather to live in a rugged land and rule than to cultivate rich plains and be slaves to others.

[iamtheone]

Elimination

Why, Die Walk Down

A whole race Genocide,
Taken away all of our pride,
A whole race Genocide,
Taken away, Watch Them all fall down.

Revolution, the only solution,
The armed response of an entire nation,
Revolution, the only solution,
We've taken all your shit, now it's time for restitution.

Recognition, Restoration, Reparation,
Recognition, Restoration, Reparation,
Watch them all fall down.

Revolution, the only solution,
The armed response of an entire nation,
Revolution, the only solution,
We've taken all your shit, now it's time for restitution.

The plan was mastered and called Genocide,
(Never want to see you around)
Took all the children and then we died,
(Never want to see you around)
The few that remained were never found,
(Never want to see you around)
All in a system of Down......
Down.....Down.......Down........Walk Down...........

Watch them all fall down,
Revolution, the only solution,
The armed response of an entire nation,
Revolution, the only solution,
We've taken all your shit, now it's time for restitution.

The plan was mastered and called Genocide
(Never want to see you around)
Took all the children and then we died,
(Never want to see you around)
The few that remained were never found,
(Never want to see you around)
All in a system , Down~

[iamtheone]

[iamtheone]

At forty six Edward Stowescroft surveyed his literary life without regret, but with an undeniable melancholy. Its rewards had been damnably meagre -- meagre beyond his expectations, and from the first he had been sensible that to pursue his course without concessions would bring at best but a living wage. Throughout his career he had been discouragingly ill paid. Hack work in his twenties, revision and "ghost writing" in his thirties had sufficed while he nurtured and cultivated his art; yet that art, so sedulously practiced, in its flowering drew admiration from a woefully limited if fervent audience.

Stowescroft was a man of brilliant attainments. Modest to a fault in his ambitions, he aspired to be little else than a well-cultivated gentleman in the exacting New England sense of the term: that cultivation meant a thorough grounding in the classics, a comprehensive knowledge of the natural sciences, and more than a dilettante's understanding of painting and architecture, of economics and sociology, of history and biography and politics. So wide were his sympathies as revealed in his correspondence that people were disposed to grant him a truly encyclopaedic comprehension, although he himself was the first to decry such a description. An antiquarian of note, his most especial delights lay in visiting historical sites along the Atlantic coast. To explore a church such as Notre Dame des Victoires in Quebec or to revisit the Poe environs in Richmond gave him keener anticipation than a much-needed check from an editor.

Stowescroft's countenance was patterned severely along the lines of his New England heritage. To a stranger he might appear somewhat prim and humorless with his dark brown eyes deep-set above a formidably long nose, the tight line of his lips, and the stern chin, but in reality his wit was as renowned as his tolerance. He lived on the second floor of a venerable Georgian house in the city of his birth. His widowed aunt [note: here and throughout HPL has altered Shea's "maiden aunt" to "widowed aunt" -- DC] occupied the ground floor and helped with the house-keeping; his differences with his wife had been amicably settled by a divorce years before.

To his readers he might be a source of fascinated speculation, for the intensity of his writings in unusual fields hinted at delvings into black magic, but to his correspondents his views were well-known -- even the apparent contradictions in his nature, such as the military streak that made him love firearms and volunteer for a war his intellect assured him was senseless or caused him to espouse a fascism incompatible with his civility and gentle tolerance. For Stowescroft managed a correspondence such as has not flourished since the eighteenth century. In a script minute and instantly recognizable he wrote voluminously on myriad topics, casually developing a theme to essay-length before relinquishing it; by that time the correspondent had been edified and informed to an astonishing degree. So skillfully did he write that although Stowescroft had almost a hundred correspondents, he never once gave offence and almost never lost an argument. Although he wrote with unfailing felicity, his correspondence took so much of his time that he had difficulty in fulfilling his commercial obligations or -- more important -- in writing his own inimitable tales.

And those tales were distinctly worthy of the most eager expectations. Their range was restricted to the somewhat narrow field of the horror tale -- for Stowescroft had so long been a recluse that the more normal themes of literature were virtually closed to him, despite his great talent -- but within that field Stowescroft need yield to no one, even if his tendency toward self-disparagement might make him fancy that certain British writers, such as Blackwood and Dunsany and Machen, excelled him in craftsmanship. Truly, Stowescroft was as successful in depicting the faintly morbid and gloomy atmosphere of New England as ever was Hawthorne; and stylistically he had matched and then surpassed Poe. His portraits of Arkham (Salem) were unforgettable; there was a singing rhythm in his shorter tales that was verbally delightful; and in his longer tales he attained a degree of outsideness so convincing that their spell lingered in the memory for years. Even to the least impressionable reader there came during the progress of the tale a half-belief in dark demons such as Nyarlathotep and in planets of dread like Yuggoth and especially in that abhorrent book, the Necronomicon.

The Necronomicon had been his most successful creation. Purporting to be the centuries-old and clerically banned work of a mad Arab, Alhazred, it had figured in most of his stories as the sourcebook of incantations and dread magic rites. It was casually mentioned in the most shuddery of allusions; and such was the skill of his writing and such the credulity of his readers that it was taken at its face value. Probably the readers felt a tinge of uneasiness at its every mention. Such books, if they really existed, should be destroyed, they thought; for, while they could read of the most fearsome abominations with enjoyment, the suggestion that there might be some basis in truth disturbed them greatly.

Stowescroft himself was far from deriding such literal interpretations, for in truth he himself could never laugh over the Necronomicon. The conception for the book had come to him in circumstances which had haunted his memory every since. All his life Stowescroft had been subject to nightmares of the most frightening potency; indeed, several of his most vivid dreams had furnished ideas for his tales. One night he had dreamed, and knew he dreamed, yet the knowledge that he was not awake did not rouse him from the dream, as is almost always the case. His dream was so terrifying that he struggled to escape into consciousness and found he could not. Yet in some manner it was vouchsafed him that if he did not awaken there would not be a living Edward Stowescroft to come presently to awareness. The military streak in his nature would not tolerate so abject a surrender; and by dint of the utmost endeavor he managed his release -- to find himself, not in his bed, but in an abandoned Providence cemetery near a grave whose mouldering stones gave the singular impression of having been recently disturbed. And in his mind ineradicably was the thought of the book, even the name. He had seized upon it for his stories, since much of the success of weird tales depends upon the choice of sinister-sounding and memorable symbols, things like Dunsany's lion-shunned Bethmoora, like Chambers' Yellow Sign, like Machen's Aklo letters [HPL writes in the margin: "ritual?", but Machen in fact writes of "Aklo letters". -- DC] -- but he confessed to himself a slight uneasiness in the appropriation.

The Necronomicon had justified its use subsequently. Few stories came from Stowescroft's gifted pen without some references to it, and other writers to whom he acted as mentor began likewise to use it in their narratives. Stowescroft's influence among younger writers was very pronounced. Of the contributors to the esoteric magazine in which the majority of Stowescroft's tales had appeared, there were few who had not become acquainted with the deceptively dour-looking writer, either personally or through correspondance. Many a promising talent had been fostered by his mentorship; a more scrupulously honest and yet encouraging critic could scarce be found, and it is to his everlasting credit that Stowescroft never once trod on the over-sensitive toes of egotistical young writers. In return, they helped to spread the fame of the Necronomicon. The very youthful Robert Blake [i.e., Robert Bloch: HPL had used the name "Robert Blake" for Bloch in the story "The Haunter of the Dark". -- DC] made especial use of it in his famed Ghoul and Doom tales; the Comte d'Erlette [i.e., August Derleth: named for an actual ancestor of Derleth's, the Comte d'Erlette supposedly wrote . -- DC], the brilliant Wisconsin novelist, in his "potboilers" made the Necronomicon much more poignantly vivid than his somewhat shop-worn themes; and the Egyptian painter and poet, Klarkash-Ton [i.e., Clark Ashton Smith. -- DC], had drawn a picture of it that was so disquietingly like the book of the dream, even to the exact position of a worm-hole, that Stowescroft had been unable to sleep for nights.

Consequently there was considerable of a stir amongst the "gang" of the magazine when, in a somewhat cryptic note, Stowescroft asked them to discontinue further reference to the book. The Comte d'Erlette, an indefatiguable worker, was forced to delete it from half a dozen tales he had written since his latest bi-weekly letter to Stowescroft, and to recall it from the proofs of several accepted manuscripts. Lounger, Jr. [i.e., Frank Belknap Long. -- DC], the closest associate of the writer, made a hurried trip to the Providence ménage. He was shocked to find that Stowescroft almost overnight had become the old man he had whimsically pretended to be in his correspondence.

"What is it, Edward?" he asked in tones of shock. Behind him the widowed aunt was walking about, shaking her head and muttering as to herself. There was not the wonted responding twinkle in Stowescroft's eyes as he weakly beckoned Lounger, Jr. to a seat. He was in the high-backed chair which commanded an excellent view of Federal Hill [note: here and throughout HPL has altered Shea's "Beacon Hill" to "Federal Hill". Beacon Hill is in Boston, whereas Federal Hill could be seen from the window of HPL's home in Providence. -- DC], a shawl about his shoulders, although the day was not chill. There was a deep resignation in his face. Lounger, Jr. received singularly an impression that he was dying, and the very thought fell upon him like an icy hand. He was somewhat reassured a moment later when Midnight, a venerable tomcat, came into the room and leaped upon Stowescroft's lap. The relaxation in the writer's face as he stroked Midnight restored the familiar appearance of the household, and made Lounger, Jr. dismiss the feeling of portent as beyond credence.

"It was fantastic of me, Nappy, I suppose," Stowescroft was saying slowly, "to ask you and the rest of the gang to stop the mention of the Necronomicon. And yet I must insist that you do precisely that. Oh, I can't explain why; it's against all the rules of natural science; it even sounds like one of my own tales; yet lately I have been receiving the intimation that the Necronomicon is more real than I had supposed. But how can that be? It is as if Cervantes were haunted by the ghost of Don Quixote. Still, were I to credit Yoga and the rest of that quackery of the Far East, I might believe that the very persistence of mention of the Necronomicon had created more than a mental image. The Yogas teach that many things can gain solid form through concentration."


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That evening Stowescroft sat in his chair. Far away lights were springing up on Federal Hill. He sat in reverie, thinking of Lounger, Jr.'s reassurances, and wishing that he had had the courage to make a clean breast of the affair. Why had he not told him of how precisely Klarkash-Ton's painted book duplicated the Necronomicon of his dreams? Or of how the quotations from the book, with which he studded his stories, required not the slightest labor, but rather sprang to his pen as if by rote? Or even more alarming, of how even the quotations of the "gang", of Blake's and Comte d'Erlette's, which presumably would have to be invented by them, had sounded disturbingly familiar? He remembered with a sudden access of trepidation the visit of the Italian from Federal Hill, who excitedly had insisted that he burn the book, and when Stowescroft had assured him it was an invention, had declared that it was known to his grandfather, and that his grandfather after whispering of it had made the sign of the cross.

Was it possible that somewhere such a book did exist, and that by some curious communication he had been made aware of it in his nightmares? And, granting so impossible a speculation, how could it be found and its spell exorcised?

Stowescroft sat late in his chair that night, and when he went to his bed he was almost instantly asleep and dreaming. And in his dream the Necronomicon was seen with a greater clarity than ever before, and he fingered its mouldering pages that had a wormhole exactly where Klarkash-Ton had placed it in his painting. And for the first time the ancient script was sufficiently legible. He read in it, although it spoke of such abominations that he struggled without avail to awaken. And once and again his eye hesitated over words that were damnedly familiar, and he recognized them in his dreaming state as the quotations the "gang" had so inadvertantly used.

In the morning the words stood out in his memory as clearly as he had read them in his dreams. He shrank in horror from their import, and told himself realistically that such things could not and must not be, and that he was Edward Stowescroft of 66 College St., Providence, R. I., a very prosaic and obscure writer who specialized in outré tales for which he was ill paid.

There was only one way in which the reality of his visions could be tested. The military streak in his composition suggested the way. He spent the morning carefully cleaning and loading a pistol. He made a somewhat shamefaced visit to an old church on Federal Hill and received from the priest a rosary, a font of holy water, and a small crucifix. He gathered up more sinister things according to the instructions of the Necronomicon.

And presently he was ready. He stood in a circle, with his pistol and the holy implements outside it but within reach, and slowly intoned the incantation to Nyarlathotep. After some moments of breathless expectancy he could see a shadowy outline forming just beyond the smoke of his small flame. It became clearer as he watched, grouping itself into a shuddery malevolence that was ominously familiar....

"Go back!" he cried. "I only imagined you!"


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sound of a shot sent the widowed aunt scurrying upstairs. There was an acrid smoke in the room that blinded her for a moment. As it settled, she thought she saw Stowescroft huddled in a contorted heap.

There was a body there, definitely, curiously festooned by a rosary and crucifix, and the shreds of clothing that remained resembled the cloth of the suit Stowescroft had been wearing. But the widowed aunt would never be sure that it was he. Every bit of flesh on the frame had been stripped away, as if by some strong corroding acid.

(The end.)

[cameroncrazy822]

T-Rex gummed the tourists to death at Geriatric Park.

[NoSoup]

What Lies Before Me - written at the office

A Stapler
A Pen
A Vodka Martini
Gone
Gone
Gone
Blinding Headache

[Sion]

NOOP! GABBLE BABBLE GRIMSTEED!

HUBBA HUBBA MISS CHUBBA!

WHOOOOOOOOOODAAWWWGGIE!


-wipes sweaty brow - whew!

[bernadette]

i thought for a fleeting moment about counting all of the words in this thread, but then i noticed there is way too many words. i don't like counting <i>that</i> much. ok, i don't like to count at all.

gawds, i need to get a good night's sleep tonight.

<img src="http://tfp.killbots.com/scans/041_bender-applause.gif">

[redarrow]

ANDONAThn
eratoi
]eaoit
aoertg
amtpa

and checking the motherfucking mesage length is for lame ass white bluecollar cocksuckers

[crow_daw]

And for my next impersonation I shall do Mickey Mouse getting caught in a trap.......................



(whistle)(whistle)(whistle)(deep inhalation)(whistle)(whistle)Ooooh, cheese...GOD DAMMIT! JESUS FREAKING CHRIST MARY MOTHER OF HOLY FUCKING SHIT!

[Fremen]

iamtheone, the Stowescroft post, what is that from?
That was pretty interesting and entertaining.

[bundy]

When Sesostris died, he was succeeded by his son Pheros, a prince who undertook no military adventures. He went blind, and the reason for it is explained in the following story:

one year the Nile rose to an excessive height, as much as twenty-seven feet, and when all the fields were under water it began to blow hard, so that the river got very rough. The king in insensate rage seized a spear and hurled it into the swirling waters, and immediately thereafter he was attacked by a disease of the eyes, and became blind. Ha was blind for ten years, and in the eleventh he received an oracle from the city of Buto to the effect that the time of his punishment being now ended, he would recover his sight, if he washed his eyes with the urine of a woman who had never lain with any man except her husband. He tried his wife first, but without success; then he tried other women, a great many, one after another, until at last his sight was restored. Then he collected within the walls of a town, now called Red Clod, all the women except the one whose urine had proved efficacious, set the place on fire, and burnt them all to death, town and all; afterwards he married the woman who had been the means of curing him. In gratitude for his recovery he dedicated a number of offerings in all the temples of repute; but the most remarkable of them were two stone obelisks which he set up in the precinct of the temple of the Sun. These were well worth seeing; they are twelve feet broad and a hundred and fifty feet high, each hewn from a single block of stone.

Pheros was succeeded by a native of Memphis, whose name in the Greek language was Proteus. To this day there is a sacred precinct of his at Memphis, very fine and richly adorned, and situatead south of the temple of Hephaestus. The whole district hereabouts is known as the Camp of the Tyrians, because the houses in the neighbourhood are occupied by Phoenicians from Tyre. Within the enclosure there is a temple dedicated to the foreign Aphrodite. I should guess, myself, that it was built in honour of Helen the daughter of Tyndareus, not only because i have heard it said that she passed some time at the court of Proteus, but also, and more particularly, because of the description of Aphrodite as 'the foreigner', a title never given to this goddess in any of her other temples. I questioned the priests about the story of Helen, and they told me in reply that Paris was on his way home from Sparta with his stolen bride, when, somewhere in the Aegean sea, he met foul weather, which drove his ship towards Egypt, until at last, the gale continuing as bad as ever, he found himself on the coast, and managed to get ashore at the Salt-pans, in the mouth of the Nile now called the Canopic. Here on the beach there was a temple, which still exists, dedicated to Heracles, and in connection with it there is a very ancient custom, which has remained unaltered to my day. If a runaway slave takes refuge in this shrine and allows the sacred marks, which are the sign of his submission to the service of the god, to be set upon his body, his master, no matter who he is, cannot lay hands on him. Now some of Paris' servants found out about this and, wishing to get him into trouble, deserted, and fled as suppliants to the temple and told against him the whole story of his abduction of Helen and his wicked treatment of Menelaus. They bought these charges against their master not only before the temple priests, but also before the warden of that mouth of the Nile, a man named Thonis. Thonis at once sent a dispatch to Proteus at Memphis. 'A Trojan stranger (the message ran) has arrived here from Greece, where he has been guilty of an abominable crime: first he seduced the wife of his host, then carried her off together with a great deal of valuable property; and now stress of weather has forced him to land on this coast. Are we to let him to sail away again in possession of his stolen goods, or should we confiscate them?'

Proteus answered: 'No matter who it is that has committed this crime against his friend, arrest him and send him to me, that i may hear what he can say for himself.' Thonis accordingly arrested Paris, helf his ships, and took both him and Helen to Memphis, together with the stolen property and the servants who had taken sanctuary in the temple. On their arrival Proteus asked Paris who he was and where he had come from, and Paris gave him his anem and all the details of his family and a true account of his voyage; but when he was further asked how he had got possession of Helen, then, instead of telling the truth, he began to vacillate, until the runaway servants convicted him of lying and told the whole story of his crime. Finally Proteus gave his judgement: 'If,' he said, 'I did not consider it a matter of great importance that i have never yet put to death any stranger who has been forced upon my coasts by stress of weather, I should have punished you for the sake of your Greek host. To be welcomed as a guest, and to repay that kindness by so foul a deed! Your are a villain. You seduced your friend's wife, and, as if that were not enough, persuaded her to escape with you on the wings of passion you roused. Even that did not content you - but you must bring with you besides the treasure you have stolen from your host's house. But though i cannot punish you a stranger with death, I will not allow you to take away your ill-gotten gains: I will keep this woman and the treause, until the Greek to whom they belong chooses to come and fetch them. As for you and the companions of your voyage, i give you three days in which to leave my country - and to find an anchorage elsewhere. If you are not gone by then, I shall treat you as enemies.'

This was the account i had heard from the priests about the arrival of Helen at Proteus' court. I think Homer was familiar with the story; for though he rejected it as less suitable for epic poetry than the one he actually used, he left indications that it was not unknown to him. For instance, when he descrobes the wanderings of Paris in the Iliad (and he has not elsewhere contradicted his account), he says that in the course of them he brought Helen to Sidon in Phoenicia. The passage occurs in the section of the poem where Diomedes performs his great deeds and it runs like this:

There were the bright robes woven by the women of Sidon,
Whom the hero Paris, splendid as a god to look on,
Brought from that city when he sailed the wide sea
Voyaging with the high-born Helen, when he took her home.

There is also a passage in the Odyssey alluding to the same fact:

These drugs of subtle virtue the daughter of Zeus was given
By an Egyptian woman, Polydamna, wife of Thon;
For the rich earth of Egypt beas many herbs
Which steeped in liquor have power to cure, or to kill.

and, again, Menelaus is made to say to Telemachus:

In Egypt the gods still stayed me, though i longed to return,
For i had not paid them their due of sacrifice.

Homer makes it quite clear in these passages that he knew about Paris going out of his way to Egypt - the point of the first quoted being that Siden borders on Egypt, and the Phoenicians, to whom Sidon belongs, live in Syria.

[Mephex]