Good writing contest
This forum inspired by the original.
Professional Soccer in Ghana
"And finally, it may not be English soccer, or even European, but it's a story so banterous that it warranted inclusion in The Limey. The results of a match-fixing investigation in Ghana were announced on Wednesday in the catchy named Ghanaian Zone Three Middle League.
On the final day of the season, FC Nania was tied on points with Great Mariners. With both teams facing poor opposition, goal difference looked to be the likely determinant of who would receive the single promotion place to the National Premier League (teams get promoted or relegated based on their final rankings in the league standings, i.e. the top teams goes to the next higher league (often with great financial benefit), and the bottom team goes down to the next lower league). At halftime, both Mariners and Nania were leading 1-0. Mariners scored no less than 28 times in the second half to surely, if none too subtlety, gain promotion ... only to discover that Nania had won its game 31-0.
Showing Holmesian skills of deduction and Quincyian attention to detail, the Ghanaian FA's investigation concluded that money had changed hands at halftime in both games. The league demoted and fined all four teams and suspended 46 players and officials for a year. All concerned have laughably protested their innocence and vowed to appeal."
Listen, I know that esoterum.com is really just a form of mental masturbation or as Walter Peety Owen would say, these notes we add to the esoterum are just emotional ejaculations. Note to Self: you need to get laid But this image of the Alabama fish queen needed to be posted, not only because it is a beautiful picture of what appears to be a true moment of happiness, but also from a prose perspective sometimes you need assignments. So I want people to post a quippette about how the fish queen came to be. Who is she? Who did she have to blow to become fish queen?
There are truly few moments of true happiness in a given human life. The truliness of the true happiness might be deeply subjective in the court of popular opinion, but a subject such as the truth of happiness is an exercise in self subjection--only Sue-Billy McDilly can identify the happiest moment of Sue-Billy McDilly's life. In the absence of Sue-Billy's judgement, let us inspect the evidence at hand. Is happiness a looming blanket of ominously dark and foreboding clouds over the harbor in Mobile, Alabama? Is happiness a forty pound mackerel dead two days? Is happiness a size 3 dark-salmon camisole that smells like a tuna cannery as it strains heroically to retain Sue-Billy's breasts? It may be that only Sue-Billy can answer these questions. It may be that this is the happiest moment of Sue-Billy McDilly's relatively short and otherwise uninspired life. It may be that when Sue-Billy left her home in Akka at 27 to hit it big in the bustling city of Mobile, she could never have imagined the glory or the shame that would come. She could never have conceived the glow she's able to muster while posing at gunpoint in a tiara with a plus-sized mackerel for a fish porn spread that was never even published just for the remote possibility she'll receive 3 milligrams of heroine and a ride back to pier 19.
After The Fish Queen is selected she embarks on a year-long national speaking tour. As a national spokesperson and advocate, The Fish Queen travels approximately 20,000 miles a month, to a different city every other day, addressing diverse audiences, increasing awareness and promoting her chosen platform.
The responsibilities of the Fish Queen are many:
- Stated simply: you cannot use crystal meth.
- The Fish Queen makes a difference: in a time of rapid change for America and, in particular, young Americans, The Fish Queen has a vital new role to play as a key representative and advocate of the ideals and ideas that forge America’s future.
- Create a tag-line. Past winners have chosen: "Holy Mackrel" "I'm hooked on Alabama" and "How the Three-Toed African Sloth's Parenting Skills are Analogous to My Job as a Cocktail Waitress at Harrah's in Biloxi"
- Limit drinking when you're pregnant.
- During public appearances, you must cover any visible signs of domestic violence.
- You're Fish Queen status will be revoked after your third arrest.
- The Fish Queen is responsible for maintaining the Official Fish Queen Car
"My Inner Monkey"
Do you ever get the feeling that someone is watching you? Sure you know you shouldn't masturbate in front of the window, but you didn't put the couch in front of the motherfuckin window. Did you? Of course not.
- Don't pick your nose at a stump speech? Nonsense my dear, it needs to be picked.
- But don't worry, I never fart in my cubicle, I always "crop dust" the other wing of the building.
- Look, I know that we're all just clever monkeys with the strongest germs, but some of us contain our inner monkey much better than others.
- Like the one guy I worked with who couldn't control his urge to smell anything that came out of his body. Snot, eye-boogers, earwax, and spittle that sometimes collects on the edge of your mouth when you're really thirsty and talking way to fucking much about who-knows-what and you've stuck your fingers underneath your arm pits 3 times already and you won't get out of my office so I can simultaneously laugh and vomit.
That man's inner monkey was a 500-lb silverback.
- I'd like to think of my inner monkey as that little capuchin I saw at the zoo. My inner monkey had a plastic bottle cap that it was repeatedly banging against the water dish. Bang! <dramatic pause> Bang! <dramatic pause> Bang! My inner monkey wanted nothing to do with the "free day at the zoo" crowd with their moron kids. My inner monkey would not be distracted from his appointed duty, which, I assume, was to annoy the fuck out of everyone.
- Maybe my inner monkey has the following Useless Superpower: "This incredibly esoteric ability that, while staggeringly amazing, is neither discernable nor describable in terms comprehensible to man."
"Pride of Ownership or Verbose yet unclear"
I'm deeply concerned that this submission to the good writing contest will be of insufficient quality to deserve the inherent label afforded entries to this contest: "Good writing contest entry." I worry about road kill being run over again and again by hate filled automobile drivers who delight in torturing the helpless carcasses of slightly less helpless but otherwise completely innocent animals that once desired nothing more than to transport themselves from one of mother nature's breasts to another, these breasts divided by a patch of petroleum soaked gravel seething with angry beasts of man's imagination screaming incessantly, billowing noxious hatred into the pointy pure nostrils of Earth's children and streaking blackly across the poor pale woman's chest like acid scars acrosst the torsos and faces of tortured former mistresses of Saddam's miscreant rapist sons. I fret over the slow but interminable decay of our world's craggy cliffs into the unforgiving and insatiable seas, seas fed by haughty clouds that billow and blow blithely across the skies with impunity only to burst forth with little warning into a shower of corrosive arrows that tear and burn into the flesh of otherwise immutable majestic masses of earth, a process only exacerbated by the poison machines and wandering wayward steps of mean-spirited homo hate-spians who delight in the thought of witnessing the release of carefully stored potential energy which occurs when mischievous destroyers of everything sacred hatefully toss pebbles off the side of a mountain into the conspiratorial arms of a mountain stream.
--Norg the clam shucking blubber burgler with input from Don Diego and his flaming ape Burplesquirt
"Verbosity leads to unclear, inarticulate things."
At least that's what I thought he said. He had only a single tooth, but he was working that toothpick like Michelangelo working on David's pubes. He might have been easier to understand under normal circumstances, but, since it was Wednesday, the Old Crow whiskey had taken over. I thanked him and walked back to the truck; I was confused. The dogs cocked their heads at my approach, and starting wagging their tails - this always makes me smile. I drove off down the dirt road back to the house, cracked a beer open, and thought about what the old guy had said. He was a legend, of sorts - one of the last true cowboy poets around. Fridays, when he's drinking beer, his mind is remains clear for longer and his advice is more lucid. "The good thing about being wrong is it makes others happy," he explained one fine day under the big oak tree down by Rusty's, "which is why I was such a good father and husband. I was always wrong - my kids, wife - never had confidence in what I said. But they always believed in what I did. Until..." He always trailed off, that was part of his charm. His titanic meltdown was known throughout the county, and his presence at Rusty's door was a constant reminder of how not to live your life. Despite this, he doled out the occasional pearl of wisdom to whomever would listen. Since I liked to sit outside, that person was often me. "Southern Comfort is the piss of satan," is one piece of advice I took to heart one night, well I suppose I took it to heart the day after...
Point In Fact
One must conclude from the previous statement that prose, at times, can be meandering. What exactly is meant by meandering. A quick look at Webster's tells us that meandering, more exactly- to meander, means 1. to proceed by a winding or indirect course 2. to wander aimlessly: ramble, and so on. This is easily identifiable in the term "meandering river," which is the stage after "braided river." And it is indeed in the "meandering rivers," nestled on a point bar, where one can find time for reflection and take an inward "time-out," from the careening pressures of this all too hectic world.
In hecticity one can find solemn logic in Black's Law Dictionary (with pronunciations), which reminds us that- To meander means to follow a winding or flexuous course; and when it is said, in a description of land, "thence with the meander of the river," it must mean a meandered line,-a line which follows the sinuosities of the river,-or, inother words, that the river is the boundary between the points indicated. This term is used in some jurisdictions with the meandering of surveying and mapping a stream according to its meanderings, or windings and turnings. See Meander lines.
This poses an altogether more thoughtful question, ¿Can one actually see meander lines? And ¿Are lines even real? A line is an idea, and a meandering line even more so. And if meandering lines are only ideas, ¿then what of meandering prose? The point, in fact, is that neither really exists, but are merely ideas. And, what Webster and Black fail to mention, is that in order to meander something must move from A to B. I propose that A is the concept and B is the repository and, most importantly, everything in between is an idea.
Por eso, meandering prose is open to undefined process of thought, of creativity and limitless possibilities. And also we find that this "Good writing contest" is a repository for such ideas, a compilation of ideatic energy. This creates, therefore, an altruistic call for the proseful meanderers, 1.) to reposit prose at will and 2.) to use the words 'flexuous' and 'sinuousity' as proseful meandering nuggets. Name Big L copyright reserved 2006.