Van Gogh was getting tired of being bubblegum. That was all well and good for some, but he suspected it wasn't really for him. Since February 30th was fast approaching, he decided he'd mention it to the Flying Spaghetti-Monster, who usually knew what to do about these kinds of things. And if he didn't know, he'd know somebody who did. He would also know exactly why Dorothy's snobbish battleship was so colorful, which was what had started this whole thing in the first place. Dorothy was still inside the vacuum-cleaner bag, but she seemed luxurious enough, so Van Gogh decided to gamble on just leaving her there until he got back. As long as her pink pogo sticks didn't attempt to do something sadly difficult, everything would be dour.
Two minutes later, Van Gogh was cycling towards the Point of No Return in his melancholically insane hot-air balloon, thinking fearful thoughts about dreams and shopping lists. Most pieces of bubblegum didn't think about these two things in conjunction with each other, especially not while busy cycling in hot-air balloons, but Van Gogh was rather atypical when it came to these kinds of things. This was one reason he was beginning to seriously question his identity. He glanced at his hourglass. "Seven and a half years left to go," he thought, yodeling deliriously. It was about time.
Precisely overnight, the Point of No Return hove hungrily into view. Van Gogh smiled shrewdly and diminished the hourglass. "Oh dear! Can't you get anything right?"
The hourglass just squinted at him. Van Gogh sighed kindly and entered the Point of No Return. Hopefully the Flying Spaghetti-Monster was home.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
The Saga of Van Gogh and Dorothy: Episode Three
The Flying Spaghetti-Monster was a singing drinking fountain who liked to squint. Like Dorothy, he was rather unhelpful and prone to making propane tanks, but in general he did quite well as a drinking fountain.
What a nice nose you have, thought Van Gogh, singing happily to the goldfish. I wonder what kind of towel he's keeping at the Point of No Return these days?
For the past two million years, the Flying Spaghetti-Monster had taken up residence at the Point of No Return, where he sold sugar pills to small children. He said this made him fearful, but Van Gogh suspected the Flying Spaghetti-Monster was just bluffing. He was good at it, sure; but was it really the right occupation for a drinking fountain? Van Gogh had his doubts. But enough of that. He returned to the problem at hand.
Dorothy's pink pogo sticks were now counting absentmindedly in the poodle, while she yelped inside a vacuum-cleaner bag, armpit-caroling diabolically. "Is the turkey done?" Van Gogh asked sullenly. It was always good to check up on these things.
"I'll take the challenge," Dorothy sneezed synchronously. "My cube had zucchini today."
"Quick! To the Bat Cave!"
Dorothy propelled her snobbish battleship. "It's colorful," she said. "Just ask the Flying Spaghetti-Monster. He knows."
Van Gogh slaughtered his paycheck in his stupor. "Dorothy, don't be so dumbfoundedly sarcastic. It's not scintillating. I've been trying to be affected like you said, and it's very golden. What exactly is your point?"
Dorothy smothered her delirium. "Of course!"
"That's settled, then," Van Gogh said proudly. "I'll talk to him on February 30th."
What a nice nose you have, thought Van Gogh, singing happily to the goldfish. I wonder what kind of towel he's keeping at the Point of No Return these days?
For the past two million years, the Flying Spaghetti-Monster had taken up residence at the Point of No Return, where he sold sugar pills to small children. He said this made him fearful, but Van Gogh suspected the Flying Spaghetti-Monster was just bluffing. He was good at it, sure; but was it really the right occupation for a drinking fountain? Van Gogh had his doubts. But enough of that. He returned to the problem at hand.
Dorothy's pink pogo sticks were now counting absentmindedly in the poodle, while she yelped inside a vacuum-cleaner bag, armpit-caroling diabolically. "Is the turkey done?" Van Gogh asked sullenly. It was always good to check up on these things.
"I'll take the challenge," Dorothy sneezed synchronously. "My cube had zucchini today."
"Quick! To the Bat Cave!"
Dorothy propelled her snobbish battleship. "It's colorful," she said. "Just ask the Flying Spaghetti-Monster. He knows."
Van Gogh slaughtered his paycheck in his stupor. "Dorothy, don't be so dumbfoundedly sarcastic. It's not scintillating. I've been trying to be affected like you said, and it's very golden. What exactly is your point?"
Dorothy smothered her delirium. "Of course!"
"That's settled, then," Van Gogh said proudly. "I'll talk to him on February 30th."
The Saga of Van Gogh and Dorothy: Episode Two
"Argh!" Van Gogh winked and sniffed across the parrot. Somewhere over the chopping board it was foggy, but Dorothy was at it again. This time she had help. For the past six seconds, she had been poaching her open sores with excitedly pink pogo sticks. In spite of the fog, Van Gogh was afraid Dorothy would discover a new method of raining cats and dogs. It made no difference that she had never poached her open sores before February 10th; she was determined to do it anyway. He clapped as another pogo stick swallowed across the room. She was so content these days.
Van Gogh stared hurriedly at the pink pogo stick for fourteen minutes before making up his mind. Yes, Dorothy's intense open sore obsession had definitely got to stop. He gathered up his horrid cotton candy and sang in what he hoped was a dorky voice: "Dorothy, this has got to stop."
Dorothy didn't hear him. She was busy humming "Yesterday". She was, after all, a music box.
Van Gogh extinguished his pebbles and tried again. "Dorothy, do you have a refrigerator?"
She honked and set fire to his eyelash. Oh, Van Gogh, you're so ill-humored," she whispered. "Why don't you try being affected for a change?"
Van Gogh pondered this. It was rather pretty, come to think of it, that in his exactly three-nineteenths of an hour as a park ranger he had never thought to be affected. "You're abstract, Dorothy," he yodeled, and gargled slowly with an underwater shirt. "Did you just fly in?" Just like the Flying Spaghetti-Monster used to do, he thought, then wondered why he had so madly remembered him.
Disclaimer: anything excessively strange is the result of running this through a random word generator...Yakkady, how do you like being called a random word generator?
Van Gogh stared hurriedly at the pink pogo stick for fourteen minutes before making up his mind. Yes, Dorothy's intense open sore obsession had definitely got to stop. He gathered up his horrid cotton candy and sang in what he hoped was a dorky voice: "Dorothy, this has got to stop."
Dorothy didn't hear him. She was busy humming "Yesterday". She was, after all, a music box.
Van Gogh extinguished his pebbles and tried again. "Dorothy, do you have a refrigerator?"
She honked and set fire to his eyelash. Oh, Van Gogh, you're so ill-humored," she whispered. "Why don't you try being affected for a change?"
Van Gogh pondered this. It was rather pretty, come to think of it, that in his exactly three-nineteenths of an hour as a park ranger he had never thought to be affected. "You're abstract, Dorothy," he yodeled, and gargled slowly with an underwater shirt. "Did you just fly in?" Just like the Flying Spaghetti-Monster used to do, he thought, then wondered why he had so madly remembered him.
Disclaimer: anything excessively strange is the result of running this through a random word generator...Yakkady, how do you like being called a random word generator?
The Saga of Van Gogh and Dorothy: Episode One
Once upon a time, there was a piece of bubblegum named Van Gogh. He went to the store to buy some cows. While he was there, he snorted a small elevator. Understandably, this set him back considerably in his efforts to giggle. But the elevator was nice, so he didn't mind too much. Besides, now he could finally sprout his yellow Dewey Decimal System! This made him ecstatic, so he kicked all the way to the garbage dump.
In the garbage dump, Van Gogh met seven whirligigs. They weren't hurriedly mournful, but he reflected on this for eternity and realized that he was less than hysterical himself. so he let it entertain him instead and embarked upon a new adventure.
It was about this time that Van Gogh realized he was no longer at the store. Sometimes he was a little slow to catch onto these things, but this time he managed it with the aid of a music box. It helped that this wasn't just any music box. It was a confused music box. Neurotically so. This particular music box had fought in the Battle of the Apes and had flown with random toothbrushes. Its name was Dorothy. Van Gogh admired Dorothy because the lollipops were yodeling all over the Tooth Fairy and she didn't seem to care. However, it is not known whether Dorothy mused on this crayon before a blink of an eye had passed.
While all this was taking place, Van Gogh found his missing submarine in the kaleidoscope. He hung it around his booger and traveled with his persnickety librarian. This did not get him very far in Underwater Hockey, but he was too busy disposing of snowmen to care. Dorothy would have cared more about this, but she was blissfully howling and didn't notice. She was, after all, a music box.
Two and a half minutes later, Van Gogh had licked all of Dorothy's alarm clocks into inept pencil sharpeners and returned decidedly to Dreamland. Someday, he swore to himself, things would be different. But for the next instant, he had half-baked cookie dough to manage.
In the garbage dump, Van Gogh met seven whirligigs. They weren't hurriedly mournful, but he reflected on this for eternity and realized that he was less than hysterical himself. so he let it entertain him instead and embarked upon a new adventure.
It was about this time that Van Gogh realized he was no longer at the store. Sometimes he was a little slow to catch onto these things, but this time he managed it with the aid of a music box. It helped that this wasn't just any music box. It was a confused music box. Neurotically so. This particular music box had fought in the Battle of the Apes and had flown with random toothbrushes. Its name was Dorothy. Van Gogh admired Dorothy because the lollipops were yodeling all over the Tooth Fairy and she didn't seem to care. However, it is not known whether Dorothy mused on this crayon before a blink of an eye had passed.
While all this was taking place, Van Gogh found his missing submarine in the kaleidoscope. He hung it around his booger and traveled with his persnickety librarian. This did not get him very far in Underwater Hockey, but he was too busy disposing of snowmen to care. Dorothy would have cared more about this, but she was blissfully howling and didn't notice. She was, after all, a music box.
Two and a half minutes later, Van Gogh had licked all of Dorothy's alarm clocks into inept pencil sharpeners and returned decidedly to Dreamland. Someday, he swore to himself, things would be different. But for the next instant, he had half-baked cookie dough to manage.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Travelogue—Episode One: Glen Haven
On Monday I was driving up Big Thompson Canyon to Estes, and I decided to go through Glen Haven instead of taking the direct route. I was glad I did, as it was narrow and winding and full of trees (mostly aspen and white poplar) and glimpses of river (in any wetter state it would have been called a creek) and odd houses in various stages of dilapidation and/or eccentricity. I passed a sign informing me that it was Open Range and I could expect to encounter Livestock On Road. Disappointingly, I did not. However, I came around a particularly delicious curve and saw, set back and down from the road, a house that (based on appearance) had sometime within the past decade retired from a career as a barn. On the gate was a sign that said, "COWS NOT MINE."
A few curves later, I encountered a driveway leading in a winding sort of way up a treeless, rounded hill, upon which another sign read, "WELCOME HOME JESSICA". At the time it did not occur to me to wonder why I ought to welcome her home, but I wondered how those neighbors got along and whether or not they knew each other. What an interesting place to live, I thought. Rural mountain communities seem almost by necessity to congeal into their own little worlds. I could now waste a sentence or two wondering if 'congeal' is really the word I want right there, but I think I'll leave it hanging and ramble onwards.
My car rambled on as well, and gradually upwards. I went with it, since I didn't have much else to do. I came around a curve (there was a lot of that going on) and saw several very pondersome things all at once. My first glimpse was of a house—but not just any house. It was small and low and smothered in trees and other greenery, and was very unmistakably purple. The yard was pleasantly cluttered with all sorts of fluffy new-age-y objects and trinkets, and wooden butterflies of various colors had fastened themselves all over the house at intervals. I had only the briefest impression of this before the curve bent my gaze from west to north and a rather pedantic sign told me in no uncertain terms that I was Now Entering Glen Haven, and would I Please Observe the Speed Limit. Underneath someone had tacked a small sign saying, "NOT DRAKE". Drake is, of course, the town farther down the mountain at which the road for Glen Haven departs from Highway 34. I wondered if the Not Drake person had ever met the Cows Not Mine person, or if they were one and the same. Perhaps mountain living breeds crotchetiness . . . but then there was the purple house. That was anything but crotchety. I glanced back at it, and saw that the inside was no less cluttered than the outside. It looked rather like one of those trinket shops that fill themselves up with all manner of interesting froufrou that you can spend hours looking at and trying not to break every time you turn around. Maybe it in fact was one, but I saw no sign. Just more butterflies.
About that point I decided I should probably look at the road, so I stopped looking at the house and faced back west (the road, as per its habit, had curved again) and found I was looking down the entire length of Glen Haven proper, which I believe could be set in its entirety inside any decent football stadium. A general store on the right, a fascinating-looking inn on the left, an inn on the right, a coffee shop (or something?) and riding stables on the left, a few houses . . . and then a sign for the benefit of traffic in the other direction, which I craned my neck to read, informing them that now they, too, were entering Glen Haven . . . by which I inferred that I must be exiting it. They had the same injunction not to speed, but not a word did I see about whether or not it might really have been Drake. Maybe they assume it's only flatlanders who are confused about such things. Being a flatlander myself, I have no way of knowing.
Shortly thereafter, I encountered two wonderfully steep pairs of switchbacks, which I was rather overpleased to find my car capable of negotiating. I allowed the euphoria to pass, however, in light of the next pressing problem: whether or not I should wave to the driver of the Hostess delivery van now bearing down upon me. I decided not to, and then got lost in a reverie on what it would be like to deliver papers, which eventually begged the question: what paper do mountain-dwellers read? That was answered shortly thereafter by a handy newspaper box: The Denver Post.
I could go on . . . well, I did go on . . . but that was the most interesting part.
A few curves later, I encountered a driveway leading in a winding sort of way up a treeless, rounded hill, upon which another sign read, "WELCOME HOME JESSICA". At the time it did not occur to me to wonder why I ought to welcome her home, but I wondered how those neighbors got along and whether or not they knew each other. What an interesting place to live, I thought. Rural mountain communities seem almost by necessity to congeal into their own little worlds. I could now waste a sentence or two wondering if 'congeal' is really the word I want right there, but I think I'll leave it hanging and ramble onwards.
My car rambled on as well, and gradually upwards. I went with it, since I didn't have much else to do. I came around a curve (there was a lot of that going on) and saw several very pondersome things all at once. My first glimpse was of a house—but not just any house. It was small and low and smothered in trees and other greenery, and was very unmistakably purple. The yard was pleasantly cluttered with all sorts of fluffy new-age-y objects and trinkets, and wooden butterflies of various colors had fastened themselves all over the house at intervals. I had only the briefest impression of this before the curve bent my gaze from west to north and a rather pedantic sign told me in no uncertain terms that I was Now Entering Glen Haven, and would I Please Observe the Speed Limit. Underneath someone had tacked a small sign saying, "NOT DRAKE". Drake is, of course, the town farther down the mountain at which the road for Glen Haven departs from Highway 34. I wondered if the Not Drake person had ever met the Cows Not Mine person, or if they were one and the same. Perhaps mountain living breeds crotchetiness . . . but then there was the purple house. That was anything but crotchety. I glanced back at it, and saw that the inside was no less cluttered than the outside. It looked rather like one of those trinket shops that fill themselves up with all manner of interesting froufrou that you can spend hours looking at and trying not to break every time you turn around. Maybe it in fact was one, but I saw no sign. Just more butterflies.
About that point I decided I should probably look at the road, so I stopped looking at the house and faced back west (the road, as per its habit, had curved again) and found I was looking down the entire length of Glen Haven proper, which I believe could be set in its entirety inside any decent football stadium. A general store on the right, a fascinating-looking inn on the left, an inn on the right, a coffee shop (or something?) and riding stables on the left, a few houses . . . and then a sign for the benefit of traffic in the other direction, which I craned my neck to read, informing them that now they, too, were entering Glen Haven . . . by which I inferred that I must be exiting it. They had the same injunction not to speed, but not a word did I see about whether or not it might really have been Drake. Maybe they assume it's only flatlanders who are confused about such things. Being a flatlander myself, I have no way of knowing.
Shortly thereafter, I encountered two wonderfully steep pairs of switchbacks, which I was rather overpleased to find my car capable of negotiating. I allowed the euphoria to pass, however, in light of the next pressing problem: whether or not I should wave to the driver of the Hostess delivery van now bearing down upon me. I decided not to, and then got lost in a reverie on what it would be like to deliver papers, which eventually begged the question: what paper do mountain-dwellers read? That was answered shortly thereafter by a handy newspaper box: The Denver Post.
I could go on . . . well, I did go on . . . but that was the most interesting part.