Lovelorn
wil...@ix.netcom.com
After my blue spell of Sunday afternoon, once that the rain had
gone and now that I had talked out my feelings in my earlier
journal entry, I began to sense again with great relief that
I was free of Z.
In high spirits, then, Monday afternoon I found myself walking
along the highway, enjoying the fresh air on my to "G's 4 >0",
a popular restaurant near where I live. Two fortunate people
I count among my good friends had invited me to join them
along with some others in a small celebration.
Once inside the busy, cavernous inn, I found my friends
in one of the reservation only rooms. The ambiance was
cozy, the room glowing from the crackling fire in the
fireplace.
Everyone seemed especially joyful and totally carefree.
Each person greeted me warmly.
Although I felt happiness for the couple on this aniversary
of their engagement, I had another reason, a secret one, for
being nearly ecstatic myself.
After all, I had taken a big step toward breaking Z's grip
on my emotions, banishing her to the back of my thoughts
(a location not unlike the one where I suspected she had
already placed me in her own mind).
Further, something else about the party was perfect. No one
in the group had ever met Z. There was little chance of
painful memories being revived by well-meaning questions.
The celebration indeed proved delightful. Everyone present
seemed to be in an expansive, chatty mood.
When it neared sundown, though, I decided I would benefit
from a walk home along the beach, viewing the changing
sky as I strolled.
Begging off for the duration of the party, which was scheduled
to last a couple of more hours, I made my friendly farewells.
Once outside, I walked nearer the water until the sand was
wet beneath my feet. The air was as fresh as it gets, though.
I wasn't in a mood for worrying about my shoes.
Over the water the fiery ball was dropping low; I could see
that the setting of the sun would be exquisite. (Are all
people disappointed in love connoisseurs of sunsets?)
As I had anticipated, because of the rain the previous day,
the sky began to take on a fascinating aspect.
A pale blue hazy ribbon steaked along the horizon where the
air was clear. Above that wide horizontal strip the clouds
swirled in vivid shifting hues of orange, purple, and azure.
I felt better than I ever had...since Z walked out.
Stopping from my walk, I decided to face the ocean directly,
drinking in the sunset.
On the my right a few feet away, a man and a woman were standing
on the sand, holding hands in appreciation of the moment. They
made a perfect, devoted (I somehow needed to believe) pair for
this propitious moment.
I did not want to stare. As I glanced back toward the ocean,
though, a twinge of apprehension tugged at an uneasy
consciousness.
My eyes widened. Feeling faint, I moved my hand over my
heart.
The clouds mocked me for the lie I had been living the past
twenty-four hours!
Formed in the brilliant, restless air with the precision
of a master painter, two large and knowing eyes watched me
without emotion from high over the water--eyes as clear and
profound as when on that day in the G. Museum when we stood
in front of the Moreau painting and Z., glancing away from
the picture, stared into my soul.
Below those eyes in the gigantic landscape, a chisled nose
with distinctly recognizeable character materialized as real
as yesterday.
Lower still toward the water, a mouth--with a faint enigmatic
smile poised on full lips--appeared as ineluctably as did her
memory.
These familiar features and others completed the face etched
perfectly in the nebulous tapestry of the sunset...towering
beyond my reach...dominating the sky...
You said it was time for you to move on in your life, that
you needed more freedom for exploring new avenues.
CONFESS, SORCERESS!
Was the path you walked away from me on paved with magic?
Black arts which you now use to torment me by making your
lovely calm face materialize immense above the seascape,
ruling majestically over the cold, dark shimmering waves,
troubling my gaze, obliterating all hope of forgetting you?
-----------------------------------------
copyright Bill Palmer
alt.genius.bill-palmer
P.S. "Lovelorn" represents a fragment from a journal I
was keeping about three years back. I was posting entries
from it from time to time as a sort of therapy. This entry
was originally posted in alt.romance and some other groups
on March 8, 1995.
wxixlx...@hotmail.com
In article <6dob9j$e...@dfw-ixnews9.ix.netcom.com>,
KKKyrano of KKKyberspace (wil...@ix.netcom.com ())
wrote:
>
> After my blue spell of Sunday afternoon, once that the
> rain had gone and now that I had talKKKed out my
> feelings in my earlier journal entry, I began to sense
> again with great relief that I was free of Z--Big
> Daddy Zeus.
I know. Must have been tough breaking away from Zeussie
and his good buddy Gilbert T. Sullivan...
>
> In high spirits, then, Monday afternoon I found myself
> walKKKing along the highway, enjoying the fresh air on
> my to "G's 4 >0",
G's 4>0? What in the hell is that? G's
"four-is-greater-than-zero"? And besides. I thought G
was 9.8 m/sec/sec......
> a popular restaurant near where I live. Two fortunate
> people I KKKount among my good friends had invited me
> to join them along with some others in a small
> celebration.
Awwww, Boursy and Keegan, helping you cry away the pain,
all over a round or two of O'Douls....
>
> Once inside the busy, cavernous inn, I found my
> friends in one of the reservation only rooms. The
> ambiance was cozy, the room glowing from the
> cracKKKling fire in the fireplace.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you 1995's winner for
the Bad F. Scott Fitzgerald Writing Rendition Contest.
>
> Everyone seemed especially joyful and totally
carefree.
I guess l'il Jimmie Keegan must have been in a good
mood...
> Each person greeted me warmly.
"Hey! Look, it's Biiil Palmjob, USENET's most boring
racist and out-of-control egophile! But, oh, he just
broke up with Big Daddy Zeus....poor thing...."
>
> Although I felt happiness for the couple on this
> aniversary of their engagement, I had another reason,
> a secret one, for being nearly eKKKstatic myself.
>
> I had just figured out what it meant when other
> lamesters third- and fourth-rate used the phrase
> "/dev/null" in their hopelessly-futile lames.
>
> I was eKKKKKKKK-statiKKKKKK!
>
> No longer could these poltroons shuck and jive with
> their tricky computer code-words, trying to
> turn the Usenet into their own little techno-
> jargon cocktail party.
>
> I felt like I had done my part for reclaiming
> USENET on behalf of the Minds, in opposition
> to those who might be more properly labelled
> "the Mindless", the ranks of whom might include
> (but certainly not limited to) Roger "Willaims"
> Wemyss, Libelist Joe Sexton, and "Pus Bag"
> John Davis.
>
> But I digress.
>
> After all, I had taken a big step toward breaKKKing
> BDZ's grip on my emotions, banishing her to the back
> of my thoughts (a location not unlike the one where I
> suspected she had already placed me in her own mind).
>
> It was tough for a while. The thought of Zeussie's
> supple lips surrounding my 2 1/4 inch monster haunted
> me for hours to come.....not to mention anything about
> how BDZ's monstrous ass-cheeks always bobbed and
> jigged whenever I performed anal sex on him.
>
> Further, something else about the party was perfect.
> No one in the group had ever met Z. There was little
> chance of painful memories being revived by
> well-meaning questions.
What, the idea of Palmjob actually answering someone's
question with something besides "[...]"?
Outrageous.
>
> The celebration indeed proved delightful. Everyone
> present seemed to be in an expansive, chatty mood.
>
> When it neared sundown, though, I decided I would
> benefit from a walk home along the beach, viewing the
> changing sky as I strolled.
>
> Begging off for the duration of the party, which was
> scheduled to last a couple of more hours, I made my
> friendly farewells.
>
> Once outside, I walked nearer the water until the sand
> was wet beneath my feet. The air was as fresh as it
> gets, though. I wasn't in a mood for worrying about
> my shoes.
>
> Over the water the fiery ball was dropping low; I
> could see that the setting of the sun would be
> exquisite. (Are all people disappointed in love
> connoisseurs of sunsets?)
>
> Fortuitously for me, I found a couple of discarded oak
> 4x4 timbers, one three feet long, the other seven
> and a half feet in length.
>
> I lashed the two together with the shoelaces from
> my jackboots, and went off to round up some
> tinder and kindling.
>
> Within no time, under the watchful eye of that blazing
> orb in the sky, a roaring fire came forth from
> cross I had just lit on the beach.
>
> I felt like God's gift to this planet. Not that
> that is anything unusual. But I again digress.
>
> As I had anticipated, because of the rain the previous
> day, the sky began to take on a fascinating aspect.
Burning crosses in the sky?
>
> A pale blue hazy ribbon steaked along the horizon
> where the air was clear. Above that wide horizontal
> strip the clouds swirled in vivid shifting hues of
> orange, purple, and azure.
>
> I felt better than I ever had...since Zeus walked out.
>
> Stopping from my walk, I decided to face the ocean
> directly, drinking in the sunset.
>
> On the my right a few feet away, a man and a woman
> were standing on the sand, holding hands in
> appreciation of the moment. They made a perfect,
> devoted (I somehow needed to believe) pair for this
> propitious moment. It helped that they were both
> Caucasian.
>
> I did not want to stare. As I glanced back toward the
> ocean, though, a twinge of apprehension tugged at an
> uneasy consciousness.
>
> My eyes widened. Feeling faint, I moved my hand over
> my heart.
>
> I sang the Horst Wessel song.
>
> My spirit was again pure, pure as my race, and I could
> return to my love-lorn reflections.
>
> The clouds mocked me for the lie I had been living the
> past twenty-four hours!
Why not? Everyone else on USENET mocks you, Palmjob.
>
> Formed in the brilliant, restless air with the
> precision of a master painter, two large and knowing
> eyes watched me without emotion from high over the
> water--eyes as clear and profound as when on that day
> in the G. Museum when we stood in front of the Moreau
> painting and Z., glancing away from the picture,
> stared into my soul.
>
> Below those eyes in the gigantic landscape, a chisled
nose
As in alt.fan.karl-malden.nose?
> with distinctly recognizeable character materialized
> as real as yesterday.
>
> Lower still toward the water, a mouth--with a faint
> enigmatic smile poised on full lips--appeared as
> ineluctably as did her memory.
>
> These familiar features and others completed the face
> etched perfectly in the nebulous tapestry of the
> sunset...towering beyond my reach...dominating the
> sKKKy...
>
> You said it was time for you to move on in your life,
that
> you needed more freedom for exploring new avenues.
>
> CONFESS, SORCERESS!
"Confess....confess.....confess...."
"I confess!"
"No, not you..."
(only relevant if you've ever seen the Spanish
Inquisition episode of Monty Python's Flying
Circus)
>
> Was the path you walked away from me on paved with
> magic?
No, it was probably paved with concrete.
> Black arts which you now use to torment me by making
> your lovely calm face materialize immense above the
> seascape, ruling majestically over the cold, dark
> shimmering waves,
> troubling my gaze, obliterating all hope of forgetting
> you?
>
> -----------------------------------------
> copyright Bill Palmer
> alt.genius.bill-palmer
>
> P.S. "Lovelorn" represents a fragment from a journal
> I was KKKeeping about three years back. I was posting > entries from it from time to time as a sort of
> therapy. This entry was originally posted in
> alt.romance and some other groups
> on March 8, 1995.
>
>
How sweeeeeeeeeeeeeeet. Actually, some of it is
reasonably evocative.
But you're the reigning Palmjob of this place, Palmjob,
and as such, I have no choice but to bastardize it.
Thank you and good evening.
Archie Leach
-----== Posted via Deja News, The Leader in Internet Discussion ==-----
http://www.dejanews.com/ Now offering spam-free web-based newsreading
wil...@ix.netcom.com
In <6ec5m5$nif$1...@nnrp1.dejanews.com> wxixlx...@hotmail.com writes:
>
>In article <6dob9j$e...@dfw-ixnews9.ix.netcom.com>,
>Bill Palmer (wil...@ix.netcom.com () wrote:
[...]
The perverted rant I snipped provides an exellent example
of the semiliterate flame world dregs that the malicious
crossposting of Gilbert Vanburen "Wormy" Wilkes has sucked
into rec.arts.prose. From this pseudonymous "Archie Leach"/
"wxixlx...@hotmail.com" entity, sometimes I get racist
rants that make him sound like a Klan Grand Dragon high on meth,
sometimes I get aberrant descriptions of his favorite fantasies
that make him sound like a big city sewer pipe with diarrhea,
and NOW I get "prose criticism"!
We can all thank Wormy Wilkes, since it is very likely that
this near-subliterate "critic" would have even KNOWN about
rec.arts.prose without Wormy's malicious crossposting between
rec.arts.prose and flame newsgroups!
[The perverted rant of the pseudonymous racist "wxixlxhlexlxp"
snipped. Those who have missed it and need more evidence of
the newsgroup vandalism of Gilbert Vanburen "Wormy" Wilkes
of Carnegie Mellon University can put the proverbial clothes-
pins over thier noses and backtrack on this thread.]
Bill Palmer
alt.genius.bill-palmer
Gilbert Vanburen Wilkes
Excerpts from netnews.rec.arts.prose: 6-Mar-98 Lovelorn by @ix.netcom.com
> After my blue spell of Sunday afternoon, once that the rain had
> gone and now that I had talked out my feelings in my earlier
> journal entry, I began to sense again with great relief that
> I was free of Z.
Read the above. Read it aloud. Awkward, don't you think? Why, dear
friends, does the above *feel* so strangely awkward?--let us attempt to
rationally reconstruct our intuition of awkwardness, shall we? Indeed we
shall. Regard. The author attempts to render an absolute construction.
Fowler cites the OED (palmjob despises primary sources like the OED--he
prefers secondary sources, like his little oxford's), defining an
absolute construction as a construction "standing out of the usual
grammatical relation or syntactical construction with other words";
Fowler continues: "it consists in English of a noun or pronoun that is
not the subject or object of any verb or the object of any preposition
but is attached to a participle or an infinitive, e.g. *the play being
over*, we went home./*Let us toss for it*, the loser to pay" (Fowler 4).
In the above the sentence reads "after my blue spell of sunday afternoon
... i begain to sense again ... "
The problem with the above enters precisely here: absolute constructions
stand in an adverbial as opposed to a parenthetic relation to the
proceding clause. Palmjob, however, attempts to chain several absolute
constructions together, inserting parenthetical commentary between the
initial absolute and the root clause. This results in
overload--absolutes within absolutes; ergo, the reader detects a sense
of clumsiness.
Shall we do the line-by-line thing?--oh, indeed we shall!
> After my blue spell of Sunday afternoon, once that the rain had
An absolute construction begins with *after*, another
absolute--temporally nested within the first--begins with *once*.
> gone and now that I had talked out my feelings in my earlier
The clause beginning with *once* attempts but fails to enact a parallel
structure with the conjuctive *and*--but the second half of the
construction is a relative clause ("*that* i had talked ... ") The first
*that* may be omitted without any loss of any meaning (it *should* be
omitted), and therefore fails the test of a true relative. It functions
as a deictic or simple demonstrative, or simply an instance of
periphrasis, i.e. a verbal burp. One should never attempt to hammer
asymmetrical elements into a parallel construction.
> journal entry, I began to sense again with great relief that
> I was free of Z.
At last, the root clause emerges that all those tortured absolutes
anticipate, however awkwardly: but the author submerges it into a
relative clause diminishing its impact by a factor of ten! We're all
asked to wait while the author primps and preens and builds puffs
himself up, only to be completely let down!
One suspects the author attempted to compose a climactically ordered,
periodic sentence, of the sort students of Latin know only too well. One
further suspects that the author needs more practice, much more
practice. And someone should warn the author: no one writes that way
anymore.
i could go on. Yea verily, i will go on. But i can only take *so* much
of this particular author's writing before i get really ... really ...
sleepy ...
Lovelorn?--oh, God. i can't believe he calls the above anything so
cliched as "lovelorn" ...
http://english-server.hss.cmu.edu/home/wilkes/
wil...@ix.netcom.com
In <6ec5m5$nif$1...@nnrp1.dejanews.com> wxixlx...@hotmail.com writes:
[...]
Since the above kluxer/pervert/newsgroup vandal actually made
alterations inside my text without showing by attribution marks
where he made the changes, he has proved himself a forger as
well as a very ill deviate and racist. (Our hero OF COURSE
posts under a fake name!)
Anyway, since we have new readers all the time, some of whom may
have unfortunately missed "Lovelorn", I will repost my original,
minus the aberrant, racist rant and the KKK forgeries, so people
can see for themselves what I actually wrote. To do less would
be unfair both to me and to new (and "hit-and-miss") rec.arts.
prose readers.
By the way, some of you will remember the other day when Gekko
claimed that she would not post her serious work in rec.arts.
prose because of ME. How insincere of her to make such an
unwarranted aspersion upon my behavior!
I would like ANYONE to furnish ONE example of an instance
where I have vandalized anyone's serious prose endeavors.
Just consider the appalling fashion in which this kluxer
slimed "Lovelorn", or the way that "Black Velvet Roast"
vandalized my "Gothic Whispers" the a week or so back.
I have NEVER done nor been accused of doing anything remotely
like that. It is base, it is repulsive, but it will in no
way prevent me from posting things of a type demonstrating
my continued belief in the true purpose of rec.arts.prose.
Fact is, you have to believe not only in the ideals of these
writing and prose newsgroups but in your own work to be a net
writer. Shrinking violets had better avoid posting their stuff
at all, perhaps.
Sadly, the type of vandalism we witnessed on my "Lovelorn" and
"Gothic Whispers" is not uncommon on the net. It CERTAINLY
will not deter me from continuing to share the fruits of my
writing efforts with this or any other appropriate newsgroup
audience.
Anyway...
--------------------------------------------------------------
Bill Palmer's "Lovelorn" (with the vandalistic forgeries
removed):
LOVELORN
After my blue spell of Sunday afternoon, once that the
rain had gone and now that I had talked out my feelings
in my earlier journal entry, I began to sense again with
great relief that I was free of Z.
In high spirits, then, Monday afternoon I found myself
walking along the highway, enjoying the fresh air on
my to "G's 4 >0", popular restaurant near where I live.
Two fortunate people I couunt among my good friends had
invited me to join them along with some others in a small
celebration.
Once inside the busy, cavernous inn, I found my friends in
one of the reservation only rooms. The ambiance was cozy,
the room glowing from the crackling fire in the fireplace.
Everyone seemed especially joyful and totally carefree.
All greeted me warmly.
Although I felt happiness for the couple on this anniversary
of their engagement, I had another reason, a secret one, for
waxing nearly ecstatic.
After all, I had taken a big step toward breaking Z.'s hold
on my emotions and banishing her to the back of my thoughts
(a location not unlike the one where I suspected she had
already placed me in her own mind).
Further, something else about the party was perfect. No one
in the group had ever met Z. There existed little chance of
anyone invoking painful memories by well-meaning questions.
The celebration indeed proved delightful. Everyone present
seemed help in the cheerful grip of an expansive, chatty mood.
When it neared sundown, though, I decided I would benefit
from a walk home along the beach, viewing the changing sky
as I strolled.
Begging off for the duration of the party (scheduled to
last a couple of more hours) I made my warm farewells.
Once outside, I walked nearer the water until the sand
became wet beneath my feet. The air was as fresh as it
gets, though. I wasn't in a mood for worrying about
my shoes.
Over the water the fiery ball was dropping low; I
could see that the setting of the sun would be
exquisite. (Are all people disappointed in love
connoisseurs of sunsets?)
A pale blue hazy ribbon steaked along the horizon
where the air was clear. Above that wide horizontal
strip the clouds swirled in vivid shifting hues of
orange, purple, and azure.
I felt better than I ever had...since Z. walked out.
Stopping from my walk, I decided to face the ocean
directly, drinking in the sunset.
On the my right a few feet away, a man and a woman were
standing on the sand, holding hands in appreciation of
the moment. They made a perfect, devoted (I somehow
needed to believe) pair for this propitious moment.
I did not want to stare. As I glanced back toward the
ocean, though, a twinge of apprehension tugged at an
uneasy consciousness.
My eyes widened. Feeling faint, I moved my hand over my
heart.
The clouds mocked me for the lie I had been living the past
twenty-four hours!
Formed in the brilliant, restless air with the precision of
a master painter, two large and knowing eyes watched me without
emotion from high over the water--eyes as clear and profound as
when on that day in the G. Museum when we stood in front of the
Moreau painting and Z., glancing away from the picture, stared
into my soul...
Below those eyes in the gigantic landscape, a chisled nose
with distinctly recognizeable character materialized as real
as yesterday.
Lower still toward the water, a mouth--with a faint enigmatic
smile poised on full lips--appeared as ineluctably as did her
memory.
These familiar features and others completed the face etched
perfectly in the nebulous tapestry of the sunset...towering
beyond my reach...dominating the sky...
You said it was time for you to move on in your life,
that you needed more freedom for exploring new avenues.
CONFESS, SORCERESS!
Was the path you walked away from me on paved with
magic? Black arts which you now use to torment me by
making your lovely calm face materialize immense above
the seascape, ruling majestically over the cold, dark
shimmering waves, troubling my gaze, obliterating
all hope of forgetting you?
-----------------------------------------
copyright Bill Palmer
alt.genius.bill-palmer
P.S. "Lovelorn" represents a fragment from a journal
I was keeping about three years back. I was posting
entries from rom time to time as a sort of therapy.
This entry was originally osted in alt.romance and some
wil...@ix.netcom.com
In <Ip2Ots200...@andrew.cmu.edu> Gilbert Vanburen Wilkes
<gv...@andrew.cmu.edu> writes:
>
>Excerpts from netnews.rec.arts.prose: 6-Mar-98 Lovelorn by
@ix.netcom.com
>
>> gone and now that I had talked out my feelings in my earlier
>> journal entry, I began to sense again with great relief that
>> I was free of Z.
>
Not at all. It works very well, which makes it far different
from your blathered FLAME, clumsily disguised as a "critique"!
Talk about "awkward"! The terms you ignorantly misused might
have been somewhat appropriate for discussing a treatise on
logic, but in supposed criticism of a journal entry, they
bounce off the wall by a mile, Wormy. Rarely have I read
anything so inappropriate and fatuous purporting to be a
prose evaluation. What a hoot! So far, it is nip and tuck
as to who has shown the most "critical acumen": "Black Velvet
Roast" or the pseudonymous KKK-tagging racist forger or Gilbert
Vanburen "Wormy" Wilkes of Carnegie Mellon University...
Bill Palmer
alt.genius.bill-palmer
Gilbert Vanburen Wilkes
Excerpts from netnews.rec.arts.prose: 14-Mar-98 Re: Lovelorn by @ix.netcom.com
> >Read the above. Read it aloud. Awkward, don't you think? [...]
>
> Not at all. It works very well, which makes it far different
No. It reads awkwardly. i didn't even get into the misuse of
prepositions. Damn. i can be so careless.
> from your blathered FLAME, clumsily disguised as a "critique"!
> Talk about "awkward"! The terms you ignorantly misused might
> have been somewhat appropriate for discussing a treatise on
> logic, but in supposed criticism of a journal entry, they
Oh, *this* is funny. Once again i demonstrate that the jiggly little
rube lacks the conceptual tools to diagnose a sentence or a text. Not
once in the above did i mention logic, a logical term, or a logical
concept--but my little correspondence can't figure that out!--my
"critique" (which was no critique--it was more a lesson in how not to
write a sentence) was based upon the notions of absolute clauses,
relative clauses, grammatical parallelism, periodic sentences etc. Did i
quote from a text on logic?--no, i quoted from Fowlers, a style and
usage manual. Of course, to billshit bill palmer i may as well have been
signing in akkadian cuneiform.
http://english-server.hss.cmu.edu/home/wilkes/
Craig Sherwood
In newsgroup alt.genius.bill-palmer, post
<6eckeh$p...@dfw-ixnews6.ix.netcom.com>,wil...@ix.netcom.com () wrote:
> LOVELORN
>
>
>After my blue spell of Sunday afternoon, once that the
>rain had gone and now that I had talked out my feelings
>in my earlier journal entry, I began to sense again with
>great relief that I was free of Z.
Sniiiiip the most appalling drivel from Palmer's entry in the Pleasant
Valley Junior High's "Quill & Quire Writers Club" purple prose
contest.
Jesus, Bill, you have excelled yourself this time. I'm forwarding this
one to http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/, where "WWW" means "Wretched
Writers Welcome". You're a lead-pipe cinch for an award of some sort
there.
Oh, by the way:
>Further, something else about the party was perfect. No one
>in the group had ever met Z. There existed little chance of
>anyone invoking painful memories by well-meaning questions.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^
You mean evoking, you illiterate buffoon.
Remember folks, just keep clicking on <www.wilhelp.com> to read all
about Bill Palmer.
--
Rubbing the Kook Kabal's noses in their
own shit is not only fun, it's a duty.
"All non-hostile reactions are more than welcome and most
especially yours Mr. Palmer. I've long admired your style
and devotion to free speech." - (Speedbump to Palmjob).
All loon-related email to "polt...@wilhelp.com"
Gilbert Vanburen Wilkes
Excerpts from netnews.rec.arts.prose: 14-Mar-98 Re: Lovelorn by Craig
Sherwood@UCEBlock.
> >Further, something else about the party was perfect. No one
> >in the group had ever met Z. There existed little chance of
> >anyone invoking painful memories by well-meaning questions.
> ^^^^^^^^^^^^^
> You mean evoking, you illiterate buffoon.
Thank you, Craig. i had missed that particular lapse in palmer's
contribution. i'll work that into my more general critique.
>
> Remember folks, just keep clicking on <www.wilhelp.com> to read all
> about Bill Palmer.
>
Thank you. We will!
>
>
> --
> Rubbing the Kook Kabal's noses in their
> own shit is not only fun, it's a duty.
> "All non-hostile reactions are more than welcome and most
> especially yours Mr. Palmer. I've long admired your style
> and devotion to free speech." - (Speedbump to Palmjob).
> All loon-related email to "polt...@wilhelp.com"
>
http://english-server.hss.cmu.edu/home/wilkes/
Menjy
Palmjob wrote:
I see our friend Mr Wilkes has already dissected part of this little
piece, Palmjob. Perhaps you'd like my opinion. No? Well, here it is
anyway. You're welcome.
It's abysmal.
We'll pass over the fact that this "Z" probably left you in the few
hours it took her to realize that you're a pompous and utterly boring
little bastard, and have a look at just a couple of examples of the
sorry prose and tired clichés you use in this pathetic little
mastubatory waste of bandwidth.
I shall leave the real job of demolition to Mr Wilkes. He's far better
qualified.
[...]
>I wasn't in a mood for worrying about my shoes.
Don't ask me why, but this makes me smile. It just sounds so bloody
silly.
>Over the water the fiery ball was dropping low;
Fiery ball... this is plain fucking awful.
Try this :
"The sun hung in the sky like bloated orange, only a lot bigger,
hotter and a little less orange."
I prefer mine.
---
Flamer to the Gentry -- Prof. IACW -- mhm 20x8 -- "ludus non nisi sanguineus"
http://extra.newsguy.com/~fgentry (updated 26th Feb 98)
Menjy
Gilbert Vanburen Wilkes wrote:
>Excerpts from netnews.rec.arts.prose: 14-Mar-98 Re: Lovelorn by Craig
>Sherwood@UCEBlock.
>
>> >Further, something else about the party was perfect. No one
>> >in the group had ever met Z. There existed little chance of
>> >anyone invoking painful memories by well-meaning questions.
>> ^^^^^^^^^^^^^
>> You mean evoking, you illiterate buffoon.
>
>Thank you, Craig. i had missed that particular lapse in palmer's
>contribution. i'll work that into my more general critique.
How about "ambiance". Is that *really* how the Americans spell
ambience, and if so, why?
Gilbert Vanburen Wilkes
Excerpts from netnews.rec.arts.prose: 14-Mar-98 Re: Lovelorn by
> >Sherwood@UCEBlock.
> >
> >> >in the group had ever met Z. There existed little chance of
> >> >anyone invoking painful memories by well-meaning questions.
> >> You mean evoking, you illiterate buffoon.
> >
> >Thank you, Craig. i had missed that particular lapse in palmer's
> >contribution. i'll work that into my more general critique.
>
> How about "ambiance". Is that *really* how the Americans spell
> ambience, and if so, why?
Damn it!--i missed *another* one! Will everyone please come forward with
their own lists of disfluencies from palmjob's "lovelorn"?--i'm
compiling a master list. Everytime i think i've exhausted the
possibilities for error in palmjob's "masterpiece" some interloper comes
forward with yet *another* palmjob pratfall!--how many atrocities
against the English language can one squealing gibberer pack into so few
lines?
PS: i'm glad you're back, Menjy. Have you met Robert Maughan?
http://english-server.hss.cmu.edu/home/wilkes/
Gilbert Vanburen Wilkes
Excerpts from netnews.rec.arts.prose: 14-Mar-98 Lovelorn - another one
Wilk.. by "Menjy"@NOT.DAVE.BLOODY.
> >I wasn't in a mood for worrying about my shoes.
>
> Don't ask me why, but this makes me smile. It just sounds so bloody
> silly.
"My pinto stopped running and i ran out of cheese."
http://english-server.hss.cmu.edu/home/wilkes/
Gilbert Vanburen Wilkes
Excerpts from netnews.rec.arts.prose: 14-Mar-98 Lovelorn - another one
Wilk.. by "Menjy"@NOT.DAVE.BLOODY.
> >Over the water the fiery ball was dropping low;
>
> Fiery ball... this is plain fucking awful.
>
> Try this :
>
> "The sun hung in the sky like bloated orange, only a lot bigger,
> hotter and a little less orange."
>
> I prefer mine.
>
i prefer yours too. By the way, why do you refer to me as "mr.
wilkes"?--have we had a falling out, menjy? Why can't you just call me
"the sum of all evils" like everyone else? i append this message with
some figurative language that may amuse you.
Excerpts from mail: 21-Jan-98 Fwd: Worst analogies ever by Richard D.
Davis@andrew.
>
> ---------- Forwarded message begins here ----------
>
> WINNERS OF THE "WORST ANALOGIES EVER WRITTEN IN A
> HIGH SCHOOL ESSAY" CONTEST
>
>
> She caught your eye like one of those pointy hook
> latches that used to dangle from screen doors and
> would fly up whenever you banged the door open again.
> (Rich Murphy, Fairfax Station)
>
> The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly
> the way a bowling ball wouldn't. (Russell Beland,
> Springfield)
>
> McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a
> Hefty Bag filled with vegetable soup. (Paul Sabourin,
> Silver Spring)
>
> From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene
> had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on
> vacation in another city and "Jeopardy" comes on at 7
> p.m. instead of 7:30. (Roy Ashley, Washington)
>
> Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a
> sneeze. (Chuck Smith, Woodbridge)
>
> Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black
> dots in the center. (Russell Beland, Springfield)
>
> Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever. (Unknown)
>
> He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree. (Jack
> Bross, Chevy Chase)
>
> The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like
> maggots when you fry them in hot grease. (Gary F.
> Hevel, Silver Spring)
>
> Her date was pleasant enough, but she knew that if her
> life was a movie this guy would be buried in the
> credits as something like "Second Tall Man." (Russell
> Beland, Springfield)
>
> Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers
> raced across the grassy field toward each other like
> two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36
> p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka
> at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph. (Jennifer Hart,
> Arlington)
>
> The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the period
> after the Dr. on a Dr Pepper can. (Wayne Goode,
> Madison, Ala.)
>
> They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with
> picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan's teeth
> (Paul Kocak, Syracuse, N.Y.)
>
> John and Mary had never met. They were like two
> hummingbirds who had also never met. (Russell Beland,
> Springfield)
>
> The thunder was ominous-sounding, much like the sound
> of a thin sheet of metal being shaken backstage during
> the storm scene in a play. (Barbara Fetherolf,
> Alexandria)
>
> His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking
> alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling
> Free (Chuck Smith, Woodbridge)
>
> The red brick wall was the color of a brick-red
> Crayola crayon. (Unknown)
>
>
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
> Always do right.
> This will gratify some people,
> and astonish the rest.
> --Mark Twain
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
> =========================
> Remember...
> ...No matter what happens...
> ...God is good! : )
> =========================
> ------------------------------
> SMILE! : )
> God Loves YOU!!
> ------------------------------
> Sean Slevin
> slev...@jmu.edu
>
http://english-server.hss.cmu.edu/home/wilkes/
Menjy
Gilbert Vanburen Wilkes wrote:
>Excerpts :
>PS: i'm glad you're back, Menjy.
Why, thankyou, and thanks for the position on the editorial board. I'm
still, umm, working on a suitably stirring acceptance speech.
>Have you met Robert Maughan?
Very briefly, yes, via one or two e-mail conversations last year.
Menjy
Gilbert Vanburen Wilkes wrote:
>i prefer yours too. By the way, why do you refer to me as "mr.
>wilkes"?--have we had a falling out, menjy?
I should bloody well hope not, you "sum of all evils".
>Why can't you just call me
>"the sum of all evils" like everyone else? i append this message with
>some figurative language that may amuse you.
Fabulous stuff! Mine came from a Usenet "worst analogies contest" I
entered a little while ago. I'm appending what I managed to pick up
from the thread. I have no idea who won this contest, btw.
Document title : Re: Bad Analogies Contest
Document ID : various
Newsgroups :
rec.humor,alt.fan.karl-malden.nose,alt.stupidity
Date : lundi 29 septembre 1997 20:03
From : various
I think Cheri Bogowitz started with :
[...]
He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a
guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of
those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country
speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar
eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.
Do you have what it takes?
Get your creative juices flowing and enter your bad analogy into the
Bad Analogy Contest Thread here at rec.humor.
to which James "Quacky" Powell added, before crossposting to the 'nose
The glass was full of sweet orange juice, looking slightly like a
glass with orange soda in it, only less clear.
He held the eraser. It looked like rubber chewing gum that you could
erase things with.
The clothespin fell to the ground and made a little noise that sounded
a bit like a noise that sounds like a clothespin falling to the ground
that makes a little noise that sounds a bit like a noise that sounds
like a clothespin...
Then it all exploded in a big mess like when you put split-pea soup
mixed with steak and cream of mushroom soup into a blender and set it
on "Pureé" without the top on.
Bobby Tendinitis saw it, and wrote :
The car sped by rapidly like a motorized, unfeathered, metal bird with
wheels.
John sipped his coffee slowly, like a man who goes to the supermarket
and finds out they don't sell Chia Pets there.
The mailbox glimmered in the sunlight like a man who carries envelopes
around in his mouth and glimmers in the sunlight.
Thomas wept softly, like a bomb that detonates quietly, and drips
water out of its eyes instead of detonating.
David Rosenfield then added :
The toilet festered like the number seven, it's flush-handle sweating
like the little cross mark that Europeans put on it to distinguish it
from the number one.
The Jolly Rancher disolved in Peter's mouth like a mouse pad, thick
and full of mushrooms, such as is found in a newborn baby's spit-up.
Jonas shuffled the playing cards with the expertise of someone who
could tell you the names of all 101 dalmations, but not identify them
by their spots.
He drank down the water as greedily as King Henry I sucked money from
the English nobility through the levying of danegelds.
Mark Bullock polluted the thread with the following contribution:
I suppose this will go down like an incredibly heavy thing that's so
heavy that it'll, err... sink.
Mark walked out of the house. The gravel crunched underfoot like Rice
Crispies, except that it sounded more like "crunch" than "snap,
crackle & pop". The sun hung in the sky like bloated orange, only a
lot bigger, hotter and a little less orange. He looked out over the
garden through eyes as blue as a London telephone cabin painted blue,
and listened to the birds chirruping in the trees like people
chattering, but with a different accent.
And Erasmus B. Black finally added :
She picked up the injured puppy tenderly like a mother who has't had
any children and isn't even pregnant yet would do. The puppy licked
her nose like a mother dog licks under her puppies' tails and howled
silently like an unenergized siren except that the siren would be a
lot louder if it was energized than the puppy would be if it was
howling noisily.
Gilbert Vanburen Wilkes
Excerpts from netnews.rec.arts.prose: 14-Mar-98 Re: reader-lorn (was:
re: l.. by "Menjy"@NOT.DAVE.BLOODY.
> >Have you met Robert Maughan?
>
> Very briefly, yes, via one or two e-mail conversations last year.
Ah. Good. We'll all get along famously, i'm sure. Robert can flame like
no one in usenet history. i've never seen anything like it. i tend to
fixate on a particular rube (e.g. palmjob) and usually wind up in a
draw: Robert takes on entire newsgroups all by himself, and wins. You
should also peruse his poetry on rec.arts.poems.
http://english-server.hss.cmu.edu/home/wilkes/
Robert Maughan
Menjy <me...@NOT.DAVE.BLOODY.KENDRICKwilhelp.com> writes
>Flamer to the Gentry
*That* Flamer to the Gentry. Sadly my medium term mem ... my med ... but
wait, Mark Bullock, for 'tis he. Even more sadly the Tiny Techie cleared
out my archive so I must rely on my ... on my ... I think we conducted a
discreet exchange.
I seem to remember a slight disappointment to find said M.B. deeply in-
volved in what turned out to be a fractious forum for formula flaming in
which I met with a dozen or so formula flamers who simply faded away one
by one, until a final encounter which I conceded without reservation if
unwillingly I must say; my opponent mentioned he was leaving to bore for
the U.S.A. at the XIVth Olympic Flames that December in Okefenokee and I
was on the edge of my seat.
The acme of my short incursion was to be named 'First Fuckhead of the
Month' by a committee of one. A thoroughly dishonest, undemocratic and
indisputable honour which made it all the more precious, of course.
RJM.
Menjy
Robert Maughan wrote:
> Menjy writes
>>Flamer to the Gentry
>
>*That* Flamer to the Gentry. [...]
[bows]
> I seem to remember a slight disappointment to find said M.B. deeply in-
>volved in what turned out to be a fractious forum for formula flaming [...]
I *adore* alliteration. "Deeply involved", you say. I'm afraid I have
to agree - before Gilbert helped expand my Usenet horizons by luring
me into this delightful little forum, I was sadly stagnating in the
flame pits. Since I arrived here, I have been accused of producing
something akin to prose. But I'll get over it. Adopted Irishmen have
thick skins.
Gilbert Vanburen Wilkes
Excerpts from netnews.rec.arts.prose: 14-Mar-98 Re: reader-lorn (was:
re: l.. by "Menjy"@NOT.DAVE.BLOODY.
> flame pits. Since I arrived here, I have been accused of producing
> something akin to prose. But I'll get over it. Adopted Irishmen have
> thick skins.
Menjy's satires were very warmly received here, robert. A superb
humorist, menjy, and the author of a most devastating troll upon our
mutual friend, little billy palmer: the infamous "arnaud fercq" troll,
an elaborate psychological booby-trap several layers deep. You
documented the troll, menjy, did you not?--where may one find the grim
record of palmjob's latest discomfiture?
http://english-server.hss.cmu.edu/home/wilkes/
Robert Maughan
Menjy <me...@NOT.DAVE.BLOODY.KENDRICKwilhelp.com> writes
[...]
>Adopted Irishmen have
>thick skins.
Adapted Irishmen wear mail order body armour but that's another matter.
You know Gilbert, I see. Decent enough chap but I have my doubts about
his credentials, frankly. Strictly between you and me, he spells like a
fishwife and swears like a nun.
He's sound academically though; not always a good thing, you'll agree.
He once chastised me, for some minor transgression - run on sentence, a
disembowelled infinitive, I can't remember - in gratuitously abstruse
prose and took a conniption when I argued. What?
I'm sure you'll hold your own.
RJM.
Gilbert Vanburen Wilkes
Excerpts from netnews.rec.arts.prose: 14-Mar-98 Re: reader-lorn (was:
> You know Gilbert, I see. Decent enough chap but I have my doubts about
> his credentials, frankly. Strictly between you and me, he spells like a
> fishwife and swears like a nun.
Yeah. And menjy's funnier than me too. i hate him for that. But i too
"spell like a fishwife," or so you said on occasion. When i get excited
my spelling turns south. i blame our public schools. But now i try to
remain calm. The medication helps.
> He's sound academically though; not always a good thing, you'll agree.
Agreed!
> He once chastised me, for some minor transgression - run on sentence, a
> disembowelled infinitive, I can't remember - in gratuitously abstruse
> prose and took a conniption when I argued. What?
i recall you and i once going at it, robert. When you got through using
me for a tent-peg you allowed me to apologize. Thank you for that.
> I'm sure you'll hold your own.
By my fingernails. Oh!--look at that: my cuticles need work. No problem.
i have my manicurist on my speed-dialer.
http://english-server.hss.cmu.edu/home/wilkes/
Robert Maughan
Gilbert,
Remove the needle, relax and re-examine this exchange. Much as I enjoy
our tetes-a-tetes, this was addressed to young Bullock, who may even now
be holding his head in pain.
RJM.
In article <4p2liE200...@andrew.cmu.edu>, Gilbert Vanburen Wilkes
<gv...@andrew.cmu.edu> writes
Menjy
Robert Maughan wrote:
> Menjy writes
> You know Gilbert, I see. Decent enough chap but I have my doubts about
>his credentials, frankly. Strictly between you and me, he spells like a
>fishwife and swears like a nun.
I'm not sure you have the right person here. My spelling's usually
pretty good until I'm halfway through the third bottle of Pomerol. If
you've spotted something however, feel free to boot my arse. Oh, and
I've turned the bandwidth blue here on occasions, although probably
not by Irish standards.
> He's sound academically though; [...]
Good suffering christ man, I'm an autodidact and my teacher was drunk
half the time.
>He once chastised me, for some minor transgression - run on sentence, a
>disembowelled infinitive, I can't remember - in gratuitously abstruse
>prose and took a conniption when I argued. [...]
Mistaken identity, I'm afraid. I think that was Zanca. Until this
weekend we'd never even exchanged words on UseNet, let alone crossed
swords.
Menjy
Robert Maughan wrote:
>[...] this was addressed to young Bullock, who may even now
>be holding his head in pain.
Indeed it was. Although I am more used to being addressed in the
second person, I gathered you were talking to me. Now read my reply,
then go and take an aspirin, you silly old bugger.
Robert Maughan
I think I'll quietly remove myself from this thread. The post quoted
in part below was a response to Mark Bullock. Mark Bullock and GVW both
appear to have it arse backwards. Gentlemen, press your own buttons, and
call me when you're ready.
RJM.
In article <350b57d1....@enews.newsguy.com>, Menjy <me...@NOT.DAVE
.BLOODY.KENDRICKwilhelp.com> writes
>Robert Maughan wrote:
>> Menjy writes
>[...]
>
>> You know Gilbert, I see. Decent enough chap but I have my doubts about
>>his credentials, frankly. Strictly between you and me, he spells like a
>>fishwife and swears like a nun.
>
>I'm not sure you have the right person here. My spelling's usually
>pretty good until I'm halfway through the third bottle of Pomerol. If
>you've spotted something however, feel free to boot my arse. Oh, and
>I've turned the bandwidth blue here on occasions, although probably
>not by Irish standards.
>
>> He's sound academically though; [...]
>
>Good suffering christ man, I'm an autodidact and my teacher was drunk
>half the time.
>
>>He once chastised me, for some minor transgression - run on sentence, a
>>disembowelled infinitive, I can't remember - in gratuitously abstruse
>>prose and took a conniption when I argued. [...]
>
>Mistaken identity, I'm afraid. I think that was Zanca. Until this
>weekend we'd never even exchanged words on UseNet, let alone crossed
>swords.
Robert Maughan
Robert Maughan <r...@etymon.demon.co.uk> affects ...
>our tetes-a-tetes
Should there be 'aux'? No, there should be 'our chats'. Slap.
RJM.
Menjy
Robert Maughan wrote:
> I think I'll quietly remove myself from this thread.
And I my head from my backside.
>The post quoted
>in part below was a response to Mark Bullock. Mark Bullock and GVW both
>appear to have it arse backwards.
Indeed.
>Gentlemen, press your own buttons, and
>call me when you're ready.
[sheepish grin] Ready.
Menjy
Menjy wrote:
>Robert Maughan wrote:
>
>>[...] this was addressed to young Bullock, who may even now
>>be holding his head in pain.
I am now.
>Indeed it was. Although I am more used to being addressed in the
>second person, I gathered you were talking to me.
Wrongly, I realize, after rereading the exchange in a new light.
>Now read my reply,
>then go and take an aspirin, you silly old bugger.
Oh dear. Sorry.