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Mar 21, 2010

I'm trying to write funny as well. I've done it with moderate success before and God knows, not everything can be DOOM DOOM DOOM.

Etherwind posted:

If nobody posts a comedy piece by tomorrow, I'll bite the bullet and post, accepting the loss.
Enough of this pity-me bullshit. If you keep saying "I'm a loser, I'm terrible" of course you're going to lose.


Mar 21, 2010

The mountebank

this is a young place by the clock of cities but old by the clock of men, which is barely a clock at all- it is the dancer left behind when one soul joins another at the fire. When one became two and two became three and they plonk down a coffee shop and so on and so forth you get the picture; a city is made of dancers, stories and love. Where's there's stories and love, there's lies, or something like that. It sounds nice, which is sort of the point.

in a billion, billion years -from long before the clocks of cities or shadow on stone until long after, when the last stars have finished their dance and given new shape to the sky- in a billion, billion years (which is a lot. More than that. Think of a lot and keep going. Have you stopped going? Don't; it's not enough) and a billion, billion years into the future there never has been nor ever will be a straight game of Find the Lady. It is a fundamental; on a far distant spiral arm of the galaxy there is a race of man-sized frogs filled with all the love of God, who live in a perfect duckshit utopia and even there, when one frog lays down three pura shells on a table and motions to a passerby to find the godpearl hidden underneath, they turn to him and croak “piss off mate, I wasn't born yesterday.”

if Find the Lady is always crooked and everyone knows, why do we still play? Because there's always someone who knows what he's in for but thinks (no not thinks, knows) he's smarter than the dealer. He's got an eye out for your tricks, so he plays and he loses and he tells himself next time mate fuckeen next time he'll win.

On December 31st 1999 21st 2012 the world was consumed by computers bird flu jaguars from space and it changed nothing. Do you know what the most dangerous thing was at Y2K? My dad was working at a power plant and he told me the main generator blew out at 12:03am on New Year's Day. Every single person on the island switched off all their electronics at 11:59 and 59 seconds exactly and the all the energy pouring back through the lines actually killed the lights. How's that for a magic trick? If everyone in China jumped they'd throw the world off its axis and if everyone turns off their lights at once they destroy a multi-million dollar piece of civic infrastructure and I say we find the mad bastard who's selling trampolines to the Chinese and make an example of him; let him play Find the Lady and tell him he's smarter than a stacked deck. Well poo poo, maybe he's already done that.

the clocks of men and cities are young, beautiful things. There's a song around the fire and you're watching shadows on the wall. Why are you playing Find the Lady? Alright step back a second mate, let me rephrase that- why are you living in fear? While waiting for the sky to fall and waiting the queen to appear, you missed the whole show. Stop watching the clock. Jesus, is that so hard? The sky is staying firmly in the sky. Live a little. Good night, good luck and don't bet against a stacked deck.

Mar 21, 2010

Chairchucker posted:

Look at all these jerks waiting on that first flash ruled story. >:(
Hey I tried to write funny. I've just been busy with Christmas poo poo so it took me a while to post.

Mar 21, 2010

So I actually legit have synesthesia (can you tell? :downs:). Does that mean I have to write a normal story?

Mar 21, 2010

Chairchucker posted:

but without any unpleasant cussing.

Yeah I'm in.

edit: being honest though, I was trying to dodge out of the prompt because it's what I do pretty much every week for Thunderdome and I feel like I've been taking it too far the last month or two. I'm trying to be more stripped down and human in my writing right now. I'll do it though, because I've got other stuff I'm writing to keep me sane and I DON'T BACK DOWN FROM A FIGHT KIDDO.

Mar 21, 2010

also in case you missed it, I'm writing poo poo in another thread and you should join the party. If you say useful things I may have more mercy on you when I inevitably conquer the dome. You may even be given a weapon before being thrown to the wolves and Fankies.

NEPOTISM I hear you scream. That's good, start practicing. Warm up your vocal chords. Get the blood pumping.

Mar 21, 2010

So clarification: am I allowed to swear in my piece? What counts as swearing? Can I say "poop"? Can I say "socks"?

Mar 21, 2010

Kk well in my fanfiction Captain Haddock gets drunk and verbally abuses the Thompsons. If you take issue with that, I would direct you to the texts below. What is the one rule of the 'dome?

You keep what you kill.

loving bring it, loserwinner.

Little King (I can't believe it's not Rimbaud)

Could I take the air around you and shape it as clay, I would make a pug. A little, droopy, smelly thing with a face too frail to hold all its self-importance. I would roll that pug in poo poo and paste a smile on its face and a big friendly tongue that says “nobody home” without uttering a sound. You're lucky that I cannot make a shape of a smell, of an essence as it were. That little clay poo poo-smell puggy canisculi would be a vessel of loathing- not hate (which is opposed to love and just as dangerous) but loathing I feel for the taste of worms or the touch of a fart in the elevator. Your soul is a fart in an elevator and I'm an industrial fan. Blow away, fart-soul. Blow away with your conviction. If you had strength in your terrible thoughts, I'd at least respect that but they are tangible discurses and bloody rotten fallow fall. In a hole in the woods there is a white creature covered in hair (apres moi le deluge, rear end in a top hat) and I guess it runs the family.

Do you know the smell of gypsies with ribbons? It is a sweet smell tinged with sadness and a thing I truly hate- because hate is the opposite of love and just as seductive. I hate it because it stirs my soul too much as to have me weep. It is such a boundless love that I cannot bear myself to face it, so I look away. That is what I call hate, you clay-dog-fart-in-an-elevator no good motherfucker. That is what I see what I say, when I drop words like a lesser man spitting bullets. You are that lesser man, who does not deserve my hatred because the only emotion you stir in me is a limp dick and a moistness upon the flat walls of my soul. You are moist made flesh, dog fart. You are to blame for all the minor, sweating evil of the world.

Take your clipboard and stick it up your rear end.

Mar 21, 2010

twinkle cave posted:

It also isn't a story (BME),
all excellent points except this- I'm just following orders here: Chairchucker asked me to write a diss track. That's how I interpreted my bonus prompt, anyway. Also I don't know what Biomedical Engineering has to do with this.

Mar 21, 2010

Throwing-poo poo-at-the-walls idea: everyone gets assigned a partner and has to crit them.

Mar 21, 2010

My mouth is an ole' six shooter;
I'm the best poet around and
if you come wide at me, boy
I'm gonna shoot you down.

we hadn't had machismo in a while

Mar 21, 2010

Was I Chairchucker's loser? You can tell me, cuz

Mar 21, 2010

Alright, let's do this. I'm thinking a funny story that contains no fantastical elements or states of altered consciousness. Can I get away with that or is it too broad?

Mar 21, 2010

Yissss. I am the loserwinner king.

I'm thinking the thread's getting pretty long and after this week, it might be a good idea to launch Thunderdome 2.0. We can post the new crit stuff in the OP and make everything a bit tidier with a long-range sorta thing.


Mar 21, 2010

Just to be sure, we've got about 20 hours right?

You know there's a middle ground between







and the whole story behind one gigantic block of text, right?

Mar 21, 2010

Prompt: about unimportant things, funny, no fantasy, no altered states. Also it's about fake dicks even though that's an old prompt.

Matters of proprietary

“I'm sorry Mr. Sotheby but Sotheby's holds the copyright to your name. You may under no circumstances call your-” James Arnold stopped and sniffed. The shop was crowded with the sort of strange knick-knack that people seem to love; 5p gee-gaws from trade-aid shops from every benighted county in England. Snowglobes and fake watches and in one corner, some sort of large clay pipe in the shape of a man clutching tightly to his oversized-

phallus corrected Arnold, before his internal monologue took a turn into dangerous territory.

“-your emporium Sotheby's.” His glare fell on the fake Mr. Sotheby, “and unless you change the name by the end of the fiscal year, we will be forced to take legal action,” he said. There, it was all out in the open. Arnold turned his body slightly, to avoid having to see the indecent pipe. Sotheby noticed though, his bloodhound eyes perking up. “Oh Sir, you've seen the peace pipe. Why, my wife Elda, God-Rest-Her-Soul, bought it back from Peru about fifteen years ago. They say if you blow-”

“That's quite enough, Mr. Sotheby. I believe we are done here. I'll leave you with the paperwork,” said Arnold as he beat a hurried retreat in the face of the Fake Sotheby's aggressive earnestness. The bell over the door gave a sad little jangle as he left, leaving Sotheby in the dark with his things. The peace-pipe loomed menacingly, casting the shadow of a clay mushroom onto the wrinkled hangdog of a man below.

“Elda,” he said, “what should I do, Elda?”

He looked up at the pipe, then down at his shaking hands and that very night, he hatched a plan.







Arnold's lip twitched as he read the letter. “You are cordially invited,” he muttered. He laughed despite himself. Why not? It would be a fittingly sad end to the sad little shop that had caused him so much grief. His client has been on the receiving end of no less than three lawsuits after products bought at “Sotheby's” turned out to be less valuable than advertised. None of them had succeeded but they'd wasted a lot of time and made the grand old house look bad for the press.

Well, I've nothing better to do this afternoon he thought. He opened his closet and picked out his best suit. He hoped the other partygoers would appreciate it and at the very least, it would inject some class into the occasion. “Well,” he said to himself, “time to meet the hoi polloi.”


“Hello?” said Arnold. The shop was dark and quiet. He noted with some satisfaction that the 'peace pipe' had been taken off the shelf. The Fake Sotheby must've caught onto his faux pas and put it away. It was either that or someone bought the thing, which was too horrible to even contemplate.

The door swung closed with a little jangling of bells. “Mr. Arnold sir,” said a small voice. Arnold jumped hard enough that he almost slammed into a shelf of snowglobes. The little man was standing behind him, shrouded in shadow. Only his eyes were visible, shining and red-rimmed. He took a step forward and the lawyer noticed the vulgar clay impliment in his hands. “I had a talk with Elda and we agreed to keep the shop the way it is, sir.”

“Your- your wife, man? You said she was dead.”

“Yessir, these last 15 years. We had her cremated.”

Arnold's gaze was now fixed solidly on the pipe. “You surely don't mean-”

“I surely do, Sir,” said Sotheby. He stretched himself out to full height and Arnold became accutely aware that the antique dealer was less a small man than a giant of a man all bundled up. He was unbundled now and his head touched the roof. The pipe was made of hard, red clay. It looked much larger up close. “There's no party Sir, that much should be apparent by now, especially for a smart gent like yourself. Now I'm not a man of letters but I know about men and I know you and your dogs are going to keep on coming back unless I give you something … special.”

He raised the pipe high and Arnold cowered. All he could think were headlines


or maybe even

and sombre police officers with a row of stone dildos and the lone witness saying “yes, that one!”

His whole life went before his eyes and it was horribly boring. “I never did see Belfast,” he managed to say before the clay connected squarely with his palms.

“I saw you looking at it Sir and I straight away knew you liked it. If I give you my wife Elda's peace pipe, will you leave us alone? A man like you probably has a very stressful job and could do with a little release from time to time if you know what I mean,” Sotheby said with terrifying geniality.

“Yes, yes of course,” said Arnold. He took the pipe in two hands, scared the hammering of his heart would shatter the clay. “I have never been more grateful, Mr. Sotheby. You really don't know what this means to me,” he said. The little-big man was grinning ear to ear. “Oh I knew it. You have a lovely day Sir,” he said.

The bells jangled once last time and James Arnold hit the street, clay bong in hand. He looked at it and its tiny clay eyes looked back. “Yes,” he said, “I could use a little stress release.”

He had never meant anything so much in his entire life.

[1000 words exactly]

Mar 21, 2010

Huh. The gay thing actually wasn't intentional; he's just meant to be super repressed and terrified of penises because they're improper. Now that you've said it, I can't stop seeing it either. All the double entendres about cock smoking are intentional but like, not in a gay way. :v:

(I can't believe I just wrote that)

The whole point was me trying to cram as many dicks into 1000 words as possible.

The original story was that he smoked his wife in the pipe, then killed the lawyer and smoked him too but I realised it was too obvious and canned it. It also skirted 'no altered states' too much. Also also I couldn't figure out where he got a furnace from. I left the part about the ashes in because it was funny but I see now, it's just kinda weird and confusing without context.

That pipe totally exists by the way. My old flatmate owns it.

Mar 21, 2010

Bite my banger, bonerman. I will take my words and shove them clean up your urethra until you piss blood and poetry. Bottle it, babyman; it'll be the sweetest thing that ever comes out of you.


Prompt: narrative poetry about unimportant things

364 Words

The truck goes down the alley slow
nosing among the scattered dross, looking
for metal-sign, the glints and telltale sheen,
which lead to castoff treasures, abandoned gold. lovely. Not sure what abandoned is doing there- seems redundant with castoff just before it.

The cab is silent today, no music  a linebreak is about the same pause as a comma, maybe slightly shorter. Here, it's not enough. You may have noticed me overusing in all my prose- that's because it's what goes here.
that kind of day. That kind of mood. He smokes-
rolls down the window just a crack; a cold breeze 
outside whispering through fingerless gloves there was a comma here and I chopped it. If there's a nice double meaning (e.g. 'cold breeze whispering through' and 'whispering through fingerless gloves') that adds to the thing, keep it in. In prose you're taught EVERYTHING MUST BE CLEAR but this isn't prose you're dealing with. Have a little fun.
one tapping ash, one loosely on the wheel. 

Eyes darting ceaselessly, searching for scrap
When found, it will be pried apart, gutted
then thrown together in the high walled bed, 
piled haphazardly, bound together with rope. I feel like you're riffing of The Circus Animals' Desertion. If that's the case, don't. Too many beginner poets try to riff off Eliot/Yeats etc and trip over their own feet. Those are some big shoes to fill. If you're not, look it up and read it; it's a much more elegant portrayal of what you're going for here.

Mostly it takes no time, no time at all. this repetition is clumsy- it serves no purpose 
Hops out the truck, grab it, throw, back in, gone.
The big ones, though, they need some care, some focus. too choppy. Find a way to cut commas.

Like this one, almost blocking the way-
left carelessly, with hope that someone else
would deal with it, remove the problem, please. oh god so many commas just go through and ask yourself "do I really need this comma? What is it doing to the prosody?" The answer is "loving with it in a bad way".

He stops the truck, steps out deliberately
strides towards the prize, a sofa bed, angled
up, pointing skyward, stained and forgotten,
hard frame beneath soft foam and cloth, the ax
swung high to crash upon it, stuffing thrown 
into the air like snow, the harsh shriek of 
metal on metal, clawing out the bones. the soft rhymes are lovely but COMMAS COMMAS COMMAS

The gutted carcass left behind, he stoops
dragging the mangled frame behind him slowly
cacophony on pavement drawing stares
from passers-by, muttering, dark looks, follow 
clinging to him like garbage stink. He's used 
to both. Deals with them every day. Don't care. the words you're using are a bit strong here. I know what you're trying to do with carcass but it's too much. You want the RIGHT word, not the BEST word. Bad poetry wastes $20 words on 10c sentiment.

He stoops and straightens, heaves, the jangled mess
refusing to cooperate, the truck
not helping either, worn out springs sagging
unpredictably [I've noticed you use thi word a lot. It's really unwieldy]. He keeps on anyway
grits his teeth, growls from his chest, ignores the crowd, 
laughing at him, chuckling down in their throats. 

When he manages to get it on, cheers
break out, the crowd clapping as he dusts off [STDH.TXT][in other news the way 'get it on' collocates subtly changes the prosody and it's not working]
walks stiffly around to the door, applause
heralding his ascent to the seat, cheers [i]ascent works here in the way carcass didn't. It's a powerful word but not so much it overpowers the line.

as he shifts gears and rolls the window closed
smoke already starting to thicken up.

The engine's belching rumble echoes back
from tight-packed buildings crowded round, 
exhaust billowing out behind, cold cloud 
white in the morning frost, weak sun throwing
pale light on piles of trash and worn-out goods.

Overall I like it. I'm not sure how well it fits 'narrative' though. There's a thing that happens but there's not really a plot as such. Your really big issue is the little technical poetry stuff; correct use of punctuation and linebreaks. It's less "each piece of punctuation has a strict grammatical function" than "each piece of punctuation slows the line down THIS MUCH EXACTLY". The technical prose use it still important but you're allowed to say 'close enough' if it sounds good. This is terribly unprofessional advice but everyone does it.

Mar 21, 2010

I was busy creating daily poetry 2013. If you're a real man, post in there.

From what I've seen, this thread is a bunch of men who talk a lot of big poo poo but tuck their cock between their legs and float off at the merest hint of daisies and love.


(the thread title aint even a joke all poetry these days is about dicks anyway and I bet y'all know a lot about dicks)

Mar 21, 2010

case in point

1. Why patriots are a bit
nuts in the head

Patriots are a bit nuts in the head
because they wear
red white and blue tinted spectacles
(red for blood,
white for glory
and blue ... for a boy)
and are in effervescent danger
of losing their lives.
Lives are good for you.
When you are alive
you can eat and drink a lot
and go out with girls
if you are lucky
you can even go to bed with them)
But you can't do this
if you have your belly shot away
and your seeds spread out over some corner
of a foreign field
to facilitate
in later years
the growing of oats
by some peasant yobbo

when you are posthumous
it is cold and dark
and that is why patriots
are a bit nuts in the head

- Roger McGough

Mar 21, 2010

Also while we're on the subject, we really need to get around to Thunderdome 2.0. The thread is massive and the OP wasn't build for something that got quite so big. Do we want to leave it to Martello/Stuporstar/Bonerbaby or should this week's winner have the honour?

Mar 21, 2010

I just want to say that googling Dick Bong is way funnier than it needs to be.


Mar 21, 2010

ESB you're a pretty cool guy and I don't really think you have tiny, hairless genitals.

I met Sebmojo and he has wonderful hair.

I feel like I haven't improved as much as everyone else.

Mar 21, 2010

Erik Shawn-Bohner posted:

I keep emailing them and telling them that calling your team the All Blacks is kinda racist when they're not all black.
We tried to name our badminton team the Black Cocks but some world advisory body wouldn't let us. :argh:

Also our soccer team is called the All Whites so yeah.

Mar 21, 2010

Bob Ross! That was it! Sebmojo looks like a younger, more metal Bob Ross. That's been bothering me for days now.

Mar 21, 2010

I've got to ask, have I sucked since I returned from my hiatus? Ever since I got back from teacher boot camp, I feel like I haven't been writing as well but I can't really put a finger on why. It's like I've lost something.

Mar 21, 2010

Symptomless Coma posted:

My desk just has a post-it with "NEEDLESS WASTING OF WORDS" on it now.

God love you, Thunderdome.
There was a photo of this post-it here before. It's gone now. Was there something incriminating in the background? We may never know. :tinfoil:

"All things die, kid. You could be bouncing a ball on the street or making nintendos or whatever the gently caress kids do these days and smack outta the blue comes an '89 Toyota Corolla with lovely brakes to put you in your cosmic place. The worms'll eat your guts, kid," dad said. He spoke with firewater clarity. "Priest or pauper, one day the sun will rise and you won't. You gotta make do with the time you got. That's the rock and the hard place; nobody's getting out alive, so learn to love it while it lasts."

"What about Thunderdome, dad?"

He near choked on his beer, then his eyes went cloudy and a small smile graced his lips. "Even Thunderdome," he said. It's the only time I ever saw him cry.

then the audience stood up and clapped

Mar 21, 2010

If we're going for poetry prompts, why not

You must write a poem in any style EXCEPT free verse. You must adhere to a codified form and tell us which form you plan to write it when you sign up.


Mar 21, 2010

Mecha Bob Ross will destroy you.

Also it's been more than three hours what the hell Marty.