ABSURDIS EXTREME // Case Study #971,876 [9/11/2011] by B.A. Loney

This is the story of Language. It was a happy language that was perfectly content to rollick about in the deliciously crisp, dry pages of old textbooks. It would observe the odd citation or two, scurry between parentheses, then leapfrog colons with gay abandon. But one fateful day, it stopped all of this.

On that one fateful day it stumbled across a newspaper clipping. This clipping was a detailed list of statistics, and the statistics were not good. Not good at all! Language saw that it was the least used language in all of grammardom. It was genuinely horrified at how little people were speaking, reading, or writing it. This was unacceptable! Language would have to find a way to rectify this shameful situation!

Later that evening, Language was sitting sullenly on the couch with an untouched beer and lukewarm pizza, watching the last episode of ‘Onomatopoeia Maker Gangs’ on DisFlix. A solution came to mind while the end credits crawled their way up the screen. What if Language became more ‘hip’ and ‘with it’, and tried keeping up with the modern social networking trend? The teens were all on TwitFace and TinderTok, weren’t they? If so, that’s where Language would have to be too.

So, the next morning Language got up early, fixed itself a coffee, and created an account. It tried to read a popular thread on TwitFace regarding a recently released video game sequel. Apparently, the majority of hardcore gamers were up in arms because a fan favourite character had been unceremoniously clubbed to death with a giant, frozen tuna fish by a trans bodybuilding fisherman. The vitriol was so incendiary that flames were coming off the screen and flicking Language’s face. How was Language meant to figure in all of this?

In three minutes flat, Language had gotten a headache so bad that its left eye started to twitch. Language hadn’t expected it would be so hard to get attention, let alone gain a semblance of popularity. But no one was taking notice of Language’s inherent availability. No one cared. They refused to use their words wisely, choosing instead the pointed noxiousness of stabby-face emojis, and terms such as ‘SJW’ and ‘incel’. Even one person seemed to have slammed their keyboard in a fit of fist-punchy rage as their comment read: ‘mITjof;maieu#ruqQ@450y!!))q5yv!!!’ Not the most articulate of responses.

Still, Language wasn’t going to give up.

It would have to change its focus. Pimply teenagers and other such infantile persons who suck up to the cult of video games were never going to rule the world after all. Language decided to jump into a different thread where people were discussing world politics. That would prove to be a more intellectual, polite and respectable discussion, wouldn’t it?

Holy crap, no.

In three minutes flat, ‘enriched’ with a dozen quirky insults, a motherlode of obscene declamations and a twitching right eye, Language shut down its laptop and resolved to switch to real life interactions from that point on. It would simply walk out onto the street and strike up a conversation with the first person it saw. Should be as easy as one, two, three, right?

Right?

The first person Language met on the street was a boy in a black hoodie who was diligently spray painting a huge, luminous, yellow ‘F’ on a nearby wall. The wall was as white as the boy was black. Was this a racial thing? Was the boy protesting something important? Language pondered this a little bit and then slunk away without talking to said boy. Language felt a little ashamed about this but it simply didn’t know what to say. Much better to interact with someone else.

Language came across a bald man next. This bald man was the whitest white that Language had ever seen—well, the whitest white that could be seen within the total graffiti wall of tattoos covering the bald man’s body. Said bald man was drunk, naked, and spoiling for a fight. He would be sorely disappointed on that front because in order to have a fight people would need to lay down next to the bald man in the gutter, grab one of his arms, and flail themselves with it. That’s how drunk he was. Language couldn’t quite comprehend the bald man’s slurred ramblings, but it did wonder if they were invocations of Hitler’s divine power and how all lives mattered—except for the black slaves. Language moved delicately on.

A bit further down the street, Language was glad to see an old lady, strolling about all neat and tidy and… friendly looking. Language could almost see the pleasantness of their potential interaction in its mind’s eye, how it would take her gently by the elbow and lead her across the street, and how grateful she would be. And later in the park they would discuss Oscar Wilde’s witticisms and Tchaikovsky’s compelling compositions over a cup of tea. But when Language approached the lady, she started to jab her stick at it, yelling her head off, calling Language a pervert and a paedophile. She was in the process of calling 911 when Language wisely took leave of the scene.

That night Language slept bad, really bad. Language tossed and turned in a cold sweat like it was an Olympic event, then finally gave up and jumped out of the pool… er, bed. Where had everything gone so wrong? Mopping its saturated brow with a corner of the doona, Language vowed to change the trajectory of its life. No more trying to get people to speak in its tongue, to write in its vernacular. That would prove to be an utterly fruitless endeavour in the long term.

The next morning, Language went to the Committee Of Linguistics Over Normal Society and submitted a resignation letter. Nowadays, you can see Language at the Governance Of National Arts Dupont Square where it performs as a street mime under the stage name ‘Nil Of Tongue’.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2020

forever ambered

we set out to find a secret stone on the pavement
and began to whirl like that girl in the devil’s dark pearl
do you remember
we laid upwind the pheromones of enslavement
then took a daring stance to dance the prance of scalded squirrels

we looked right at the april sun
tho’ we were told not to
we huffed and chuffed o’er happy air
dandelion swirls behind our eyes

we set out to find the hoary old chestnuts of burgeon
and began to pray like gay fey in jehovah’s dark play
do you remember
we rowed upstream with a warry shoal of kingly sturgeon
then in emerald grass laid brass to glass in arcane ritual

we looked nebby at the may moon
musing next on what to do
we fussed and cussed o’er happy air
dandelion swirls behind our eyes

the locket on my neck
as ambered as the gleam in your eyes
enshrining our faraway spring
you do remember

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2020

Open-Source Poetry Five #2

Dear Readers, have you ever visited SantaCon? It’s a magical combination of binge drinking, public urination and trauma to small children that everyone should experience at least once in their life. Why? Because it’s a reminder that no matter how bad things can get, there’s always something worse around the corner. We went once and were scared into leading fulfilled and happy lives from that point on!

We seriously have to wonder if SantaCon was invented by people who didn’t get any Christmas gifts right throughout their childhoods. It’s clear that they want adults to indulge the child within, rather than their actual children. And this would be a laudable goal if they weren’t puking all over one another in naked glitter-filled orgies. Is this their revenge on poor old Santa? It could be. Just read their rules:

Can I bring my kids?
Probably not. Kids get the rest of Christmas and all the other holidays. SantaCon is normally adults only.

Can I get smashed?
Sure. But if this is what you want to do, we ask that you stay home and don’t dress like Santa. Definitely don’t show up at a SantaCon.

Well, Dear Readers, let’s make it clear that we have no desire to cosplay Jung and Freud here. We’re merely trying to understand what exactly it is that motivates certain people to dream of being Santa whilst simultaneously wanting to kick the shit out of him. And although we might not understand this, we must concede that everyone has the right to go crazy in whatever fashion they choose. Crazy, after all, can be a lot of fun!

By the way, about the fun… It was great fun to read your submissions! There were a lot of terrific new lines that might have suited our communal letter poem thingy to Santa really well, and as such we felt our minds gradually slipping to the brink of cray cray in a way that was only mildly alarming. However, we eventually settled on SonOfDewangan’s submission because we felt it straddled that uncomfortable line of fun and crazy quite well. Congratulations, sir, you’re a psychotic fun wizard! Here’s how it looks:

Вензель

Dear Mr Santypoos, how do you do?
Hope you don’t have COVID and the deer are healthy too.
Hope Rudolph’s nose still is bright red.
Time to wake them elves up from their bed,
but please do it so it’s real gentle like
or they’ll sue you without so much as a first strike.

Вензель_нижний

(Oh, by the way! SonOfDewangan, we edited your lines a wee bit for the sake of the poem’s overall flow, so please don’t sue us! Everything is for the sake of poetry and getting nice gifts!)

So, Dear Readers, let’s keep this Santa friendly and socially responsible letter poem thingy going. We promise that neither you nor your kids will get smashed, even should you choose to dress like a drunken Santa, his red nosed, allergy-ridden reindeer, or even his outrageously big bosomed wife with the tinkly bell nipple piercings. All you need do is follow these simple festive steps:

1) Close your eyes and recall your deepest wish. 
2) Open your eyes, read the above lines of our poem in progress then submit one or two more lines of your own. 
3) We pick the lines we like most, add them to the poem and then write more. 
4) When the letter is done, we seal it, put all your names in the envelope, and send it to Santa with the next sled dog team that’s willing to chance harsh border lockdowns and Covid security measures.

By the way, as of this posting there are only 68 shopping days left until Christmas, so let’s crack that whip over those reindeer tushies!

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA, TONY SINGLE & SONOFDEWANGAN
© All rights reserved 2020

This Just In…

Dear Readers,

Just a quick update before Tati kills Tony for his phenomenal forgetfulness!

The answer for our last RIDDLE ME THIS post was ‘shadows’, and we congratulate… erm, no one? No one got this! We’re as shocked as you are!

However, we are also very happy because it seems that you all enjoyed this feature as much as we did! That’s why… guess what? Yup! We promise to do it again soon!

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2020

Open-Source Poetry Five #1

Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas everyone!

Oh… Too soon?

Well, usually we’re two bums looking at the tail lights of Santa’s sleigh while we desperately turn out our pockets to find a pen and a sheet of paper for the letter we forgot to write him.

That’s why this year we have decided to be prepared. Like they say: “If you want to be happy, be so.” (Who actually said this by the way?)

So…

Dear Mr Santypoos!

We have been a very good girl and boy during this unfestive pandemic and would subsequently like a nice gift* from you (but not a lump of coal like you gave us last Christmas, please).

Tati & Tony

*(Please make it a tiny, uninhabited island and a rad new PS5!)’

Hmmm… no. This sounds rather egoistical. And we’re pretty sure that you, Dear Reader, have also been a very good girl (or boy) this year and thus deserve a nice gift. Tell you what… how about we write a letter to Santa together? And we promise we’ll send it to the addressee when it’s done!

Oh, and what if we write the letter in the form of a lovely, rousing poem? That ought to soften Santa’s glacial heart, don’t you think? Here, we’ll begin…

Вензель

Dear Mr Santypoos, how do you do?
Hope you don’t have COVID and the deer are healthy too.

Вензель_нижний

So, if you want Santa to put something especially cool in your stocking this year then it’s easy! Just follow these simple, festive steps:

1) Close your eyes and recall your deepest wish.
2) Open your eyes, read the above lines of our poem in progress then submit one or two more lines of your own (even if you have a list of 1,918,223 items or somesuch try to pack this into only two lines).
3) We pick the lines we like most (especially if you’ve left us some milk and cookies with them) and we write some more lines to follow those.
4) When the letter is done, we seal it, put all your names in the envelope, and send it to Santa with the next express snowy owl.

By the way, as of this posting there are only 82 shopping days left until Christmas, so we need to hurry the eff up! Get crackin’, hoes! Ho ho ho!

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2020