ARM Club 1/ARM_CLUB_CD.iso/contents/sillies/silly8/A/Autobigrph

Text File | 1994-02-10 | 8KB | 131 lines

. . .without a doubt, everybody in the world has some sort of dire
fear; for some, it may be something reasonable (such as
apeirophobia, barophobia, or levophobia), but other people have
irrational fears such as claustrophobia or ailurophobia -- but me,
I'm different; I'm not sure if my fear has a name or not, but it's
a hideously debilitating problem which has caused me much terror,
pain, and difficulty throughout the sentient part of my existence
in this dimension - the fear of ending a sentence, particularly
this one: I know not what causes this fear, this compulsion, this
obsession with continuing a sentence long past all sense of
grammatical correctness (let alone comprehension by the reader),
but I am driven by this horrible anxiety that, should I eventually
use some sort of punctuation to bring this rambling stream of cons-
ciousness to an end, I will suffer something so awfully, immensely
evil that I am forced against my will to continue spewing forth
words, clauses, and parenthetical documentation (like this one
(heck, some of it's even nested) being used here) in a feeble
attempt to dissuade any harm from befalling my physical or
emotional states; in fact,  once I was driven by my fear to write
over seven hundred words without using so much as a period (except
in ellipses, which don't count), question mark, or exclamation point
to bring a logical stop to the sentence and let the poor reader
catch his (or possibly her) breath and reflect on what the heck it
was all about (heaven forbid any soul should attempt to diagram
THIS) and whether or not it was actually me speaking, or some
mutant hell freak possessing my soul and forcing my fingers to
dance across the keyboard without ever coming close to any of the
endmarks of punctuation, bringing a stop to the erratic verbiage
emanating from the deepest recesses of my cerebral cortex and
causing massive hemorrhages among several of the illprepared
readers, resulting in permanent debilitating paralysis of the
lowerregions of the torso and limbs; thus was I responsible for
more than twenty cases of this affliction, furthering my fear that,
if such were the results of NOT ending a sentence, than whatever
could happen if I did end a sentence would be so direly menacing
and destructive that I was forced to continue; in fact, this sentence
did not really begin at the top of the page -- it was
originally started several millennia ago (Standard Galactic Time)
in a distant galaxy, and I have been continuing its plot thread
since then: the sentence (collectively known as "The Sentence") now
spans just under thirty-seven quadrillion words and is larger (when
written out in longhand, 12 point type, single spaced with 1-inch
right, left, top, and bottom margins) than a fully-grown Vortibeast
of Andrexelon (which, by the way, is completely illiterate and
communicates by rapidly flagellating its magic nose goblins in
rhythm to the swaying of the silicon trees which are quite common
there (Andrexelon, not the nose)) and, due to its ever-growing
size, must be stored on a seventeen-gigabyte hard disk and kept
locked away in a secret government hangar submerged within the
bowels of Idaho so as to prevent the massive sentence from falling
into the wrong hands/tentacles/sensory receptacles, where it could
be used for bizarre and sinister acts against all of humanity (not
to mention arachnids EVERYWHERE) and result in the downfall of
past, present, and future civilizations clinging to the knowledge
that the noncompletion of the sentence holds the very balance of
Chaos and Order in its [figurative] hands, and the ending of the
sentence will surely cause such drastic chaos and mass carnage that
all (except for the news divisions of those networks covering the
global crisis) will suffer pain of such monstrosity that surely at
least one person will disembowel his entire collection of the
Encyclopedia Britannica with a frayed rubber band out of the fear
that armed bands of renegade nominatives might leap from the texts
and seek to devour the flesh and blood of living entities
possessing the vitreous fluids that the words need to survive as
two-dimensional objects in a three-dimensional world which, in
fact, happened when I completely finished the seven hundred-word
sentence mentioned above some time ago in the ancient realm of Mu
when I was just a young lad and unskilled in babbling like a total
idiot about nonsensical subjects just to postpone the downfall of
carbon-based life forms such as the Grand Vizier of Mu, who once
remarked to me that "In the Time of the Celestial Wombat thine
profound passage shalt come to an end with a cataclysmic
exclamation point, and the heavens shall bleed forth bile and the
seas shall turn red with a light, frosty coating and man will kill
man, brother will kill brother, and lungfish will kill lungfish in
the final battle between the forces of Good and the forces of
Steve" and ever since that monumental speech I have been writing
this epic tale of beauty, truth, and invertebrates in the vain attempt
to rewrite the future and defy all that the science of
astrology stands for in the universe and to, at the very least,
wait until the cataclysm can occur at a really cool time (like on
Friday the 13th or during the Superbowl or on a Monday) when the
arrival of the Four Horsemen (John, Paul, George, and Ringo) would
throw the cosmos into such a vast disarray that I could easily
utilize the mass confusion to usurp control of a (conveniently
located) star cruiser and blaze away into the nether regions of the
universe and conquer other civilizations with bizarre literary
techniques (I could pun a world to death, for instance, just as
long as I'm on Geno's side) and creatively inserted subliminal I
will win messages wielded against the hapless send me lots of money
inhabitants of wherever it is I invade with my one-man army of
toxic materials and plasma cannons aimed at centers of
civilizations unexpected to combat my literary onslaught of
maniacal adjectives that have been subjected to the cruelest
experiments ever gleaned from the recesses of a "human" mind and
used with no apparent reason against other sentient creatures for
the mere purpose of psychopathic desires and a personal vendetta
against any form of life capable of creating The Dukes of Hazzard
or some other torture of similar ilk brought about by network
executives possessing brains only capable of quasquicentennial
flashes of brilliance somehow believing that creatures capable of
rational thinking could enjoy watching drivel obviously written by
dozens of maltreated gibbons forced to pound furiously at
typewriters with blunt screwdrivers and producing vegetative
scripts pasted onto the back of warmed ice cubes just sitting
around liquefying into a large watery puddle of faulty prose and
gibbon food, similar to what one may find withering away in a
maggot-infested corner of this eternal manuscript, obviously
dropped there during the infamous Gibbon Revolt of 2364 which
nearly caused me to cease producing this sentence (and almost cease
living, as well - which could have proven to be merely a minor
setback) due to the revolting gibbons revolting across the land
against their evil tormentors, the tormentors' families, and
anybody else in the general vicinity (gibbons are not known for
their ability to discern complex shapes well, after all) who looked
especially tasty and/or covered in bananas (I apparently fell under
the latter category), attacking those victims with misshapen
avocados (which compromised the gibbons' food) and the detached
limbs of prior victims until the gibbons were dispatched by an
experienced commando team of elderly janitors wielding phasemops
and pulse brooms in an astonishing display of the power of hightech
cleaning equipment in the hands of experts. . .



The previous passage was an excerpt from The Sentence, Volume
MMLXIX, (C)4035, Coiled Green Line Press

*** EOF