Post by Jack of Blades on Apr 16, 2007 8:40:47 GMT -5
People like to pretend that death happens at the moment when the heart stops. When the eyes close. When the brain stops functioning. Of course, this is just the final step is the progressive nature of death. Death doesn't have a definitive start and it could be argued that it lacked a definite end. But I'll get onto that second bit later. If we were truly honest with ourselves, than we'd reason that Granddad's death wasn't because of the cardiac arrhythmia, that his journey to become wormfood happened when his 'loving' family dropped him in some clinical retirement home. Some would say that the slowing of his heart was as much a factor of his death as the notion of the war veteran spending the 'winter of his existence' making paper mache sculptures. That is why I'm always slightly shocked when people say that funerals are bereft of ironic comedy. Personally, I'm always amused to see the mourning family decry a heart condition over their own inability to not commit their deceased relative to some blissful prison.
And so, after spending your last days eating food that defies the very precept of 'texture' while being abused by sociopathic male nurses, you find yourself giving into some illness. From here, you have two options. If you family is particularly cruel, they'll set you on fire so that your body now resembles cat litter, put your remains in a garish urn and use you as a centerpiece for Thanksgiving. The positive of this is that if there is a zombie invasion, you won't be joining their ranks. The other option is dependant on your family also being particulary cruel. If this is the case, they will decide to bury you six-feet-underground and allow your ever-decreasing juices to call forth worms to feast on your carcass.
The patches of land in which you find your dead relations used as fertilizer are usually adorned with religious iconography and fading flowers and go by the slightly optimistic name of 'graveyards.' And, so, with Jack demonstrating signs of melancholy and malaise recently and with his normal personality unable to be called a 'ray of sunshine', it is of no surprise that we find ourselves at a graveyard for today's outburst of vexation and criticism.
Jesper Reisert: Boss, can't you do this?
Jack of Blades: I would. But I've lost any appreciation of the humour that desecrating graves brings.
Jesper Reisert: So, why are we doing this then?
Jack of Blades: Because the WCF expects a modicum of obscenity from our party. And with me preferring to drink a pint of my own diahorrea before smashing the empty glass and rubbing the broken shards of my glass on my testicles than buy into their little expectations, you'll have to do it. You'll be Jack of Blades by proxy. Just read the script and you'll do fine.
Jesper Reisert: Fine. But the graves better not be cold on my cheeks.
He prepares himself for a second.
Jesper Reisert: For the purposes of engendering startled laughs from the viewers at home and considerably needed degrees of respect from the boss' colleagues and thus motivating his recovery from this lapse in absurdist behaviour and return to form!
And so, he moves off. Pulling down his cordroy pants and then his pair of 'The Goonies' underwear, before settling his cheeks on the marble rememberance of 'Martin Clarkson.' After a few inhuman growns, Jack's soldato removes his cheeks from the tombstone leaving behind a brown stool. Had the darkness of night and clever camera tricks not shrouded his actions, it may have demonstrated his excrement to be fake and his groans manufactured from acting and not the heavy labour of ridding oneself of waste products. But the darkness of night and clever camera tricks were in place. So, with these necessary factors obfuscating the truth, he moves onto the next gravestone and repeats the process.
Jesper Reisert: For...love.
Jesper goes to the corresponding tombstone after leaving 'his' mark.
Jesper Reisert: For Sparta!
The process continues.
Jesper Reisert: For-tune favoured! Na-na-na-na.
Ditto.
Jesper Reisert: For him. For her. Calvin Klein.
...
Jesper Reisert: For the purposes of engendering startled laughs from the viewers at home and considerably needed degrees of respect from the boss' colleagues and thus motivating his recovery from this lapse in absurdist behaviour and return to form!
Any reservations Jesper had about the task at hand seem to have been lifted as he continues onwards, occasionally changing strategem in that it some tombstones carry a yellow stain, and lying to everybody about just how much effluence and urine one body can carry. As Jesper entertains himself, Dysphoria emerges from some unseen crevice.
Dysphoria: So, I've brought you the transcript from Outcast's little thing yesterday. Maybe you could read up on it and think of something to say.
Most partners would bring you a sandwich, she brings me an article in which to enflame and deride someone. She requests that I read it in hope of instigating my pervasive intellect back into full effect. I should say that I don't want to read it. That I already know what it'll say. The same sort of detritus about how his bodyguard pinned me and the like. I take it off her anyway, if only to prevent any further utterances of that shrill voice, and perch myself onto a gravestone to read it. As I do so, I come to the realization of what Jesper has been tasked with doing and quickly check my hand placement for any residual stains.
Dysphoria: It is what can be expected from any of Outcast's output. Narcisstic overstatement of his abilities and in turn, burgeoning resentment at his failures and weakness. Oh, and the needed obtuse remark about Logan.
As I read on, I see what that her all her remarks are accurate and of the same sort of type that would be found in red pen if Outcast's transcript were a school report. In green pen would be the comment: "I like the bit where Outcast seems to evolve from hateful professional wrestler to a religious zealot of David Koresh standards."
Dysphroia: I was thinking that you could parody NCW by comparing them to another group. Perhaps the X-Men? You could have 'Outcast' in the role of Cyclops, the leader who nobody particularly cares about and who is only a mainstay because people take pity on him.
Reading on, I've noticed Outcast's suggestion that I should be 'humble' in my defeat. That I should now feel pride and respect towards Team NCW. Perhaps I would, if I had absoultely any idea or clue as to who or what NCW was...
Dysphoria: There is this other bit where they begin discussing everything that NCW represents.
I find one of Outcast's statements particularly worrying in correlation with this little episode I'm suffering through. Apparently, upon my tenure here Jack of Blades is a name that has come to define 'hope.' Hope? Hope! If there was one word that I would have never associated with myself whether it be under the name Jack Blaine Nolan, Jack of Blades or the Jack of Blades currently suffering these self-issue doubts, it would not have been hope. In fact, kind of ascribing the word, 'hope' in any definition of Jack of Blades is on par with saying that Hitler's leadership campaign was predicated on understanding. And thus, I'm back to the process of self interrogation. Is the claim such an incredulous one? Maybe my antics have painted an image of prospect and fortune. Not brooding nihilism but diabetically-inducing optimism. And if that is the image that I've been producing, than my problems are a lot worse than I considered.
Dysphoria: Then, I was thinking that we could move on to your opinions of the NCW perhaps being expressed using the medium of the nineteenth century poetry form, villanelles.
But the one advantage Outcast have over me are of considerable power: the fact that he's devoted to a cause. Others would probably say that the advantage Outcast has is that he cares about this title. That his obvious passion is of such an extent that I should be fearful about the lengths he will be willing to go to pry the belt from my ownership. The problem with this is that he wouldn't need to pry the belt from my ownership. I'd rather launch it into the nearest lake than hold onto it any longer. So, no, his advantage is his cause. The sensation or want to show a belief as worthy of followers or understanding is great. If you think that the only people who are devoted to a cause are the ones who congregate outside Walmarts handing out leaflets about the Second Coming, you're wrong. They occasionally congregate outside abortion clinics as well. Regardless, beliefs have a lot of power for being intangiable things. Each and every conflict can be attributed to some idealist telling another idealists his ideals. Maybe, if I got a belief it would help. Where is the nearest airport? I could go ask the Hari Krishnas about joining.
Dysphoria: So then, we recreate the 'blinding horses' scene from Peter Schaffer's Eq--
Jack of Blades: I'm going for a walk. Just take care of Jesper and after he's done with his excretion, take him and the cameraman inside the nearby Church. The 'suits' are probably expecting some iconoclasm on my part.
And so, after spending your last days eating food that defies the very precept of 'texture' while being abused by sociopathic male nurses, you find yourself giving into some illness. From here, you have two options. If you family is particularly cruel, they'll set you on fire so that your body now resembles cat litter, put your remains in a garish urn and use you as a centerpiece for Thanksgiving. The positive of this is that if there is a zombie invasion, you won't be joining their ranks. The other option is dependant on your family also being particulary cruel. If this is the case, they will decide to bury you six-feet-underground and allow your ever-decreasing juices to call forth worms to feast on your carcass.
The patches of land in which you find your dead relations used as fertilizer are usually adorned with religious iconography and fading flowers and go by the slightly optimistic name of 'graveyards.' And, so, with Jack demonstrating signs of melancholy and malaise recently and with his normal personality unable to be called a 'ray of sunshine', it is of no surprise that we find ourselves at a graveyard for today's outburst of vexation and criticism.
Jesper Reisert: Boss, can't you do this?
Jack of Blades: I would. But I've lost any appreciation of the humour that desecrating graves brings.
Jesper Reisert: So, why are we doing this then?
Jack of Blades: Because the WCF expects a modicum of obscenity from our party. And with me preferring to drink a pint of my own diahorrea before smashing the empty glass and rubbing the broken shards of my glass on my testicles than buy into their little expectations, you'll have to do it. You'll be Jack of Blades by proxy. Just read the script and you'll do fine.
Jesper Reisert: Fine. But the graves better not be cold on my cheeks.
He prepares himself for a second.
Jesper Reisert: For the purposes of engendering startled laughs from the viewers at home and considerably needed degrees of respect from the boss' colleagues and thus motivating his recovery from this lapse in absurdist behaviour and return to form!
And so, he moves off. Pulling down his cordroy pants and then his pair of 'The Goonies' underwear, before settling his cheeks on the marble rememberance of 'Martin Clarkson.' After a few inhuman growns, Jack's soldato removes his cheeks from the tombstone leaving behind a brown stool. Had the darkness of night and clever camera tricks not shrouded his actions, it may have demonstrated his excrement to be fake and his groans manufactured from acting and not the heavy labour of ridding oneself of waste products. But the darkness of night and clever camera tricks were in place. So, with these necessary factors obfuscating the truth, he moves onto the next gravestone and repeats the process.
Jesper Reisert: For...love.
Jesper goes to the corresponding tombstone after leaving 'his' mark.
Jesper Reisert: For Sparta!
The process continues.
Jesper Reisert: For-tune favoured! Na-na-na-na.
Ditto.
Jesper Reisert: For him. For her. Calvin Klein.
...
Jesper Reisert: For the purposes of engendering startled laughs from the viewers at home and considerably needed degrees of respect from the boss' colleagues and thus motivating his recovery from this lapse in absurdist behaviour and return to form!
Any reservations Jesper had about the task at hand seem to have been lifted as he continues onwards, occasionally changing strategem in that it some tombstones carry a yellow stain, and lying to everybody about just how much effluence and urine one body can carry. As Jesper entertains himself, Dysphoria emerges from some unseen crevice.
Dysphoria: So, I've brought you the transcript from Outcast's little thing yesterday. Maybe you could read up on it and think of something to say.
Most partners would bring you a sandwich, she brings me an article in which to enflame and deride someone. She requests that I read it in hope of instigating my pervasive intellect back into full effect. I should say that I don't want to read it. That I already know what it'll say. The same sort of detritus about how his bodyguard pinned me and the like. I take it off her anyway, if only to prevent any further utterances of that shrill voice, and perch myself onto a gravestone to read it. As I do so, I come to the realization of what Jesper has been tasked with doing and quickly check my hand placement for any residual stains.
Dysphoria: It is what can be expected from any of Outcast's output. Narcisstic overstatement of his abilities and in turn, burgeoning resentment at his failures and weakness. Oh, and the needed obtuse remark about Logan.
As I read on, I see what that her all her remarks are accurate and of the same sort of type that would be found in red pen if Outcast's transcript were a school report. In green pen would be the comment: "I like the bit where Outcast seems to evolve from hateful professional wrestler to a religious zealot of David Koresh standards."
Dysphroia: I was thinking that you could parody NCW by comparing them to another group. Perhaps the X-Men? You could have 'Outcast' in the role of Cyclops, the leader who nobody particularly cares about and who is only a mainstay because people take pity on him.
Reading on, I've noticed Outcast's suggestion that I should be 'humble' in my defeat. That I should now feel pride and respect towards Team NCW. Perhaps I would, if I had absoultely any idea or clue as to who or what NCW was...
Dysphoria: There is this other bit where they begin discussing everything that NCW represents.
I find one of Outcast's statements particularly worrying in correlation with this little episode I'm suffering through. Apparently, upon my tenure here Jack of Blades is a name that has come to define 'hope.' Hope? Hope! If there was one word that I would have never associated with myself whether it be under the name Jack Blaine Nolan, Jack of Blades or the Jack of Blades currently suffering these self-issue doubts, it would not have been hope. In fact, kind of ascribing the word, 'hope' in any definition of Jack of Blades is on par with saying that Hitler's leadership campaign was predicated on understanding. And thus, I'm back to the process of self interrogation. Is the claim such an incredulous one? Maybe my antics have painted an image of prospect and fortune. Not brooding nihilism but diabetically-inducing optimism. And if that is the image that I've been producing, than my problems are a lot worse than I considered.
Dysphoria: Then, I was thinking that we could move on to your opinions of the NCW perhaps being expressed using the medium of the nineteenth century poetry form, villanelles.
But the one advantage Outcast have over me are of considerable power: the fact that he's devoted to a cause. Others would probably say that the advantage Outcast has is that he cares about this title. That his obvious passion is of such an extent that I should be fearful about the lengths he will be willing to go to pry the belt from my ownership. The problem with this is that he wouldn't need to pry the belt from my ownership. I'd rather launch it into the nearest lake than hold onto it any longer. So, no, his advantage is his cause. The sensation or want to show a belief as worthy of followers or understanding is great. If you think that the only people who are devoted to a cause are the ones who congregate outside Walmarts handing out leaflets about the Second Coming, you're wrong. They occasionally congregate outside abortion clinics as well. Regardless, beliefs have a lot of power for being intangiable things. Each and every conflict can be attributed to some idealist telling another idealists his ideals. Maybe, if I got a belief it would help. Where is the nearest airport? I could go ask the Hari Krishnas about joining.
Dysphoria: So then, we recreate the 'blinding horses' scene from Peter Schaffer's Eq--
Jack of Blades: I'm going for a walk. Just take care of Jesper and after he's done with his excretion, take him and the cameraman inside the nearby Church. The 'suits' are probably expecting some iconoclasm on my part.
