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Words, words, words! Water water everywhere, and nary a drop to drink. Etc.

I read THE MAN WHO LOVED CHILDREN (great, alarming book) because of this list. Lot of good stuff here.

TOO LIKE THE LIGHTNING. Definitely on my to read list.

Transrealism. I like the name for a literary movement. We’ll see if it picks up steam.

I no longer have any memory of why I started reading about this South African writer, Wilbur Smith. Thanks, past me?

“The Best Things Found Between Pages of Old Books”

The General of Ice Cream had a dilemma. Too many people loved eating ice cream!

“Good god, man!” the general exclaimed. “Ice cream is a finite resource and every day we’re eating it faster!”

“So what?” the people all said. “What do you know? You’re just a general!”

“Fair enough,” the general said, “My years of logistical management in service of optimizing my people killing more people (over ice cream, always over ice cream, that damnably sweet stuff) don’t really qualify me to have educated opinions on much of anything except, well, exactly that.”

“Don’t worry about it!” said all of the actors. “That’s never stopped us before! Having an opinion (or acting like you have one) is fun!”

“Thanks, actors! I owe you one,” the general said.

“Don’t mention it,” said the actors, as they only pretended to eat the ice cream. “It’s hard to say your lines with a mouthful of ice cream,” they whispered. “If you watch us closely, you’ll see that we eat really oddly in movies and television.”

The general tried to get other people to listen to him. Everyone pretended like what he had to say was Really Quite Important, but eventually the general realized it was only an act.

“Oh what’s the use,” the general said, and ate some ice cream–one scoop rocky road, one scoop strawberry.

“Delicious!” the general said.

When your name is El Guapo, you better be either really handsome or really ugly. 

The “male/mail plane” joke is funnier in the edited for TV version, oddly. 

That really is a nice pocketwatch. 

There’s something about mixing up English with other languages that’s inherently funny (to me). (eg, “three amigos”)

(You know I’m talking about ice cream!)

A few commas here, a couple semi-colons there, a dash of quotation marks, and hey–why not?–some parentheses, and Voila! instant story.

What? You want some words in there? No need! Take a look at this beauty:

“”(–);.. ‘ . . .,, ,,, “” “” . , ” () “” !

I rest my case.

Judicious use of marmalade aside, what’s the benefit of tossing the Sasquatch away?

I’m allergic to Sasquatches, Yetis, and other furry cryptozoological creatures, for one. 

Aces!

I’m so glad you approve. 

Ordinarily, the gentleman screamed, I would be having beans on toast, but now! Now! Now!

I see I’ve mistaken you for a scoundrel, when in fact you are only a sullen child. A dullard, lacking wit, and a timely sense of what’s what. Time was, on the worst days, when even your most outrageous exploits, outbursts, mindquakes, seemed, if not charming, at least, well, sincere. Now, even your restrained cracklings seem like the torn scribbling of a layabout’s tear-stained maunderings. Too much ruminating in solitude leaves one with pretty threadbare illusions, no?

But, but, but…  Toast? sobbed the impeccably dressed fellow, blowing his nose on his silk, lavender tie. 

Here’s your toast, you emotional simpleton. Hush now, hush now. Take comfort in the fact that you’re as easily consoled as a spoilt child: all we have to do is give you what you want. Even now, see? Your tears swallowed up by the ruined desert of your face. Oh? Did I say ruined desert? I only meant handkerchief. 

Yo.

The Archetype of Hunger reached for a donut. 

“Really! Haven’t you had enough?” the Archetype of Meddling in Other’s Affairs said, slapping the Archetype of Hunger’s hand playfully, but not really. 

The Archetype of Hunger reached for some bacon instead. 

“Yeah, there’s a stop-gap in the glargleflargle. Gotta rumsticate the trackladackle and stromglobulate the unicrat.”

Simon Gyrees glared at the worfler. He only understand about three out of the ten words the guy said, but he was still pretty sure he was being taken for a ride.

Junia Bea twirled around the room.

The worfler adjusted the bill of his hat (his “volpnek”) and spat onto his shoe. A guild thing, Simon Gyrees supposed. The worfler said, “Contrariwise, yoinking the sproykoidal is gonna leave in a whole mess of yuptchez!”

Junia Bea cackled.

“Sir! I’ll thank you to leave that kind of language on the doorstep outside.”

The worfler mumbled something like sorry but didn’t appear very much to be. He twirled his, Simon thought he’d called it, igglestax and cleared his throat. “The whole thing’s probably gonna starch you three hundred twenty stackers.”

Simon Gyrees goggled. “Come, Junia Bea. We shall have to fromulgate our crapsinac somewhere else! Good day to you, sir!”

Simon Gyrees and Junia Bea stepped into a teapot and vanished.

The worfler went back to eating his trepuscular and ham sandwich.