Lemon Party
Monday, April 26, 2004
A Very Short Story: The Killers
So anyway, there I was in the Serengeti, mano a mano with a deadly man-eating lion. I knew there would be time enough for but one shot, so I had to time it right. It was then that my second wife had the poor judgment to loudly demand that the porters uncork another bottle of wine.
Which of course led me realize that I was not, in fact, Ernest Hemingway, and that big game hunting is incredibly homosexual. I don't just mean the extensive use of long hard firearms. We're talking the whole men versus beast mentality, the male bonding, the drunken orgies... It's been statistically proven that hunters all want butt-loving. Badly. But that is neither here nor there. Though it does pertain to hair. Though some would say that no one cares, I think that's not fair. And neither does the mayor. Or his prize-winning hare. When it comes to hares, I can't help but stop and stare. It's not just the glare, though it's hardly rare. It has more to do with the wares in the air upstairs. This paragraph was done on a dare. A square dare. Made in a lair.
Which is what I am. Actually not a lair, but instead a liar. The difference is minor, but should be recorded for posterity. Speaking of posterity, there is such a thing as a past. The past is what has happened before now, not to be confused with history, which is what has not occurred in the past. In the past there was a Lemon Party poster who went by the nom de plume of dfjawioeraiod. His name was actually dfjaquidjh, but we just called him lewis. He was added to the roster for reasons not entirely clear, but mostly because it seemed funny at the time. For similar reasons he was removed with much pomp and circumstance. Well actually the pomp and circumstance was aimed at a point a few days after his actual ouster. You see I lied. I do that sometimes. Like when I said that turtle_07 promised not to raise taxes when elected. Utter fabrication. And not a very useful one. But the one about lewis was simply out of expediency. Once he got wind of his coming retirement he went on a tear; posting unceasingly on his charms. He threw out anything and everything in a mad, sad dash to save his skin. I was irritated. Our faithful Lemon Party readers simply could not handle the unending barrage of words. So I cut him off early. Approval was immediate and universal. As you know (If you're one of the selfish bastards that ghost/lurk the comments without leaving any direct sign of your presence) lewis is returning as the "Official Lemon Party intern and coffee fetcher." No one associated with Lemon Party drinks coffee, so the second half of his title is largely ceremonial. If you have opinions one way or the other in this turn of events, I urge you to speak out in the comments box. If you fail to comment, I will mercilessly deride your use of leetspe@k to avoid googlebots. You have been warned. Speaking of trying to hide from google... Just don't be a stupid faggot. That should cover it.
Speaking of faggotry, let's talk Hemingway again, for just a few ticks of the clock. Or what would be a few ticks of the clock if you weren't a digital watch-wearing, glisteningly drool-chinned Philistine mongoloid. But let's not get distracted. Let's keep the light admirably focused, but not so brightly as to blind us to the details. That would the words of Frank O'Connor, not Hemingway. Or is close enough to O'Connor's words for me to be satisfied without checking in Bartlett's. Hemingway. Self-important, self-indulgent basticher. Wrote about how F. Scott Fitzgerald came up to him asking if his penis was too small. Wife was being shrewish and surprising red-headed considering her hair color. This was before she went to the nuthouse. Or at least before she went for good. So Hemingway has a talk with poor Scott and cheers him up about his tiny little willy. What a crock of shit. Shite as our dear, dear Irisher, Dave Nelson, would say.
And don't get me started on his fucking "distinctive style." He went with that shit in maybe half his stories. The rest are mishmash of traditional storytelling and artistic experiments he still got to sell as short stories. Rampant, unabashed faggotry. It makes me sad. But Hemingway never wrote on the internet, obviously. The Hemingway Solution was employed long before the interwebnation superhighway opened its eyes. But that doesn't stop over five hundred live journal users from citing "Hemingway" as one of their "interests." And another seventy or so of their ilk can be found on deadjournal.
But Hemingway isn't the problem, despite my bitter pointless whining.* In fact he's not bad at all. But his fans who livejournals and deadjournals... Well let's just call them typical bloggers and skip the quoting part of the update.
And remember the guiding light, lest we forget the glory that be Lemon Party.
Because your blog sucks.
*I might call it ranting, but everyone who uses that word is actually just whining, and being a pathetic bitch. Just another word that has been butchered into uselessness under the assault of rampant idiocy. You know the words: niggardly, nauseous, utilize... the list goes on. I hate you bastards for murdering the English language.