--- In FairfieldLife@yahoogroups.com, turquoiseb <no_reply@...> wrote: > > Epiphany. > > A veritable realization. I think I've figured out a way to not only have > FUN with the upcoming Unlimited Posting Month, but to turn it into a > personal artform. > > Probably not a very good or lasting artform, because after all it's only > me so far who is willing to practice it, but I *am* suggesting it to > other writers, should they become inspired. The rules are simple: take a > description of you that has been projected onto you by someone here on > Fairfield Life and WRITE IT UP, as if it were true. > > Here's my first one, based on numerous descriptions of me over the years > on Fairfield Life. Enjoy. > I was thinking on the lines of making one word posts. One a minute eight hours a day for a month (30 days) comes to 14,400 posts if I worked 8 hours each day. Unfortunately I am not connected to the Internet except for brief moments for a while. And I really do not like posting all that much.
I do not think I could write a post such as Turq's above as I am not a writer, and I do not have quite as much negative mileage here, though Ravi's comments about me could probably form the basic character. Nice reference to 'Casablanca'. I seem to recall seeing Sam's piano in that movie in another film, one of the Mickey Rooney / Judy Garland films in the early 40s. It was a special piano with fewer keys so it was less wide and would fit better photographically in Rick's Café set. It may not have even had innards, since it was a prop. > > > Soaked by the rain but only able to afford the cheapest of bars -- not > to mention wanting to lay low anyway because Interpol was on his ass for > being a chronic drunk, on drugs, a tax evader, a sexual predator, > and...well...just for being who he is -- Uncle Tantra stumbled into > Rick's Cafe Americain. > > He didn't tip Sam the piano player, but then he didn't shoot him, > either. So far that's what we here at Rick's call a good night. After > trying to get Berger to cash his checks from the CIA and the Dalai Lama > and failing, he settled in at his usual table and ordered the Usual > Suspects: cheap wine, cheap women, and cheap conversation. > > Underaged but yummy Yvonne the singer walked by, and UT leered at her > like the low-vibe sexual predator he was, but too afraid to do anything > about it because of his innate fear of women. > > So he opened his laptop, logged into the the Internet, and got to work. > That is, after all, what the CIA and the Dalai Lama are paying him for, > right? Gotta do *some* work to justify all those paychecks. > > First he trashed TMers, saying horrid things about them that had only > been said hundreds of thousands of times before by more sane -- and > unpaid -- people. Then he lashed out at God Himself, and tried to spread > his Atheism Virus amongst the faithful. Then he obsessed on the > individuals he always obsesses on; we can document this because we have > every post he's ever made to FFL on file, and we can reference it at a > moment's notice. > > Finally, not content with the low-vibe anti-spiritual pornography he'd > spewed already onto the Internet, UT took on the Ultimate Sacred Cow, > the Brahmanic Goddess Of TM, <genuflect> Oprah Herself. He said, "Nice > woman. Too bad she's so fuckin' gullible." > > The horror. > > And on that note, UT rested, and then carried on fucking off... >
