Tuesday, September 30, 2008

For Sale: Knee Brace With Skin Attached

Blog Update:

As you may have noticed, our favorite Cheekbone Rubdown Specialist, Monty's Baseball Soup, is back and on point with a devastating left hook of a post. Laser!

Enough juice, though. It's time to announce the winner of our mascot contest.
It's RadBread.
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Hoodie Hoo!

I actually haven't decided what RadBread's persona will be just yet. I got ideas, though...

1. Hard boiled city cop re-assigned to the suburbs.

2. Extreme sports dude in the 80's vein. See Thrashin'. Fuckin' Daggers ruin everything for the Webster.



3. Old-timey shoe shine boy/newsie. You know, street smart kid with moxie and whatnot.
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(via Shorpy)

4. Paranoid schizophrenic with abrupt bladder emptying issues.
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5. Enthusiastic, foul-mouthed, opinionated, insane, seen-it-all, philosophical piece of toast with abandonment issues.


We'll be developing this character as the future draws near. Comments and suggestions are welcome.

I say good day to you.
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Monday, September 29, 2008

In Regards To Your Copious Pant Length I Challenge You To A Game Of Risk

Recently, I've discovered something. Emeril Lagasse is full of shit. As a caring and active citizen, I'm writing an open letter:

Dear Emeril,

We don't know each other at all, but I've stumbled upon a strange "coincidence". I have never had your food, nor will I, unless I go to your restaurant. Even then it will not be personally made by you. I'm not simple, and understand the fact you cannot make EVERY dish. This has nothing to do with this letter. As a matter of fact, I'm sure you are very nice and make delicious food. However sir, you can fuck right off.

I'm writing in regards to "your" catchphrase. BAM? I mean, really. Normally I wouldn't even have a problem with that being a stupid fucking catchphrase. It has absolutely no bearing on my day to day life. However, fuck you.

How dare you steal a catchphrase from America's number one sketch show: In Living Color. I loved this show with all my white heart. I feel, despite the common racial themes, they had a way of capturing the zeitgeist of the time. It paved the way for such greats as The Chappelle Show. How in your black heart could you rip off the Funky Fingers Productions characters in such a blatant and malicious manner? Again, fuck fuck fuck you.

I'm still unsure of the action to take to counter this slight on the American Public. I tried getting drunk and yelling at the patrons of a Chili's restaurant and throwing pamphlets with John Lithgow's face photoshopped to look like jalapeños. The public merely turned a blind eye to my blind rage. You evil bastard, fuck you.

I will keep this plan of action, actually.

<3 Dan
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Support My Quest. You know I'm right.

It's 4am. I was reading Missed Connections again. I'm listening to DJ/Rupture's I Am Sound Boy. We Started This, Big Work Everlasting Life. A cigarette is hanging out of my mouth, and like any disconnected 24 year old, I'm staring. I noticed a rise in meta-MC. Are we all so lonely we use the internet to connect? It's as if The Nothing has spread, now I'm listening to Outer Space by Freezepop. If you don't get or love this song we aren't friends.

How common is it to feel absolutely lost? I'm fascinated by the concept of anomie. Surrounded by people and alone. It's weird. I'm lighting another cigarette. It's fine. I have a hard enough time with humanity. God, I'm whiny. I know for a fact you've stared at your wall, maybe drunk, just blank. We seek constant stimulation to avoid the real fact. It's hard to be alive. Not in a bad way by any means. It's just that you're thrust into life completely unaware of everything. You're constantly required to re-evaluate what you know and why you know it. Wham City by Dan Deacon is playing. I'm still smoking. I fucking love smoking.

I love the anti-corporation people that smoke. Myself included.

"A pox on them, but don't take my nicotine."

I love the arpeggio in Wham City. I feel like it's the payoff I want. I keep listening and I'm given this life confirming 2 minutes. An explosion of pure happy. Thanks Dan.

Back To The Funny, I guess.
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Uncle Nezbit fought hard for boyscout freedom. In the 1800's he fought because he knew this rare and strange leech species needed protection.
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People hunted the things to near extinction. Why? Cruelty and misunderstanding. The meat of the boyscout is gamy and tough. At best, the trophies are a chuckle at parties for the bourgeois.
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I sought my local shaman in search of answers. I needed to understand this great man. To know his inspiration for the deeds of greatness he performed.
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I found wisdom in the dumpster of a local Target.
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I was wary due to the fact that the link between the spirit world and ours is very weak there. One can easily be lost amongst the Wil O' The Wisps. They aren't mean creatures, merely playful gremlin like beasts.
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Following the unmistakable smell of year old gin, I found my advisor. With glee I asked for all the information I could. I asked the BIG questions, about Unkie Nezbittles, Douglas Adams, you name it.
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His words were few. I was stunned. He spoke in quatrains like Nostradamus. These short beautiful poems of prophecy scared and delighted me. While raving and jabbering, I learned various ways to cook boots, find hope, and the mystery of the boy scouts. Those rare inedible marks of mid 1920's social artifice. Trends create false need, false need kills.
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With eagerness, I questioned. My fear gone, I became bold. Soon though, his rantings became slower and more focused. Trailing off after he found a lid from a can of Spaghetti-O's to lick clean, I cried. For no reason (like how Cathy can't get a boyfriend) I sobbed.
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Burgerteeth taught me much in my young age. I can drive most trains with ease. I still don't know why those fields of wild boy scouts were killed, and I weep. One day Man will find peace and his terrible nature will wash away like Burgerteeth's tan.

-Monty's Baseball Soup

I was going to stop, but I thought of something. Sabrepulse fucking RULES. Listen to him for your own sake. I'm on cigarette 8989738. Still awake and mind is running. I was going to write a huge wildlife factfile on the boyscouts. I'm not, though. I think about these things I write forever. I also don't. It's a weird blend of thinking/unthinking. I also constantly worry if they're good. Like bad.

It's a weird new anxiety to face.

Like I need a new one.

I already compulsively read lists. I can't help it. No matter how stupid or predictable. I'm reading shit like "The Top Ten Reasons Why You Fail" or "Is He A Cheater?". I have no worries about either topic. They are not relevant. I do, though. For the record ladies, he is. Sorry to break it to you, blog style. I just believe whatever Yahoo! news tells me. Without question.

Ok. I promise no more false endings. I won't promise good writing, though.

I Know I Got Dat Death Threat

True Story Real Life Time! (On the Internet, though, so I don't consider it 100% real. If something "happens" to you on the Internet, does that even count? Ponder this, children.)

As I checked my myspace page for breast cancer today, I saw that I got a new friend request. This has been happening a little too much lately since I changed my status from "married" to "single" (That's right ladies, I'm all yours. Smell my musks, sugar-goblins). I go to the friend request screen and see this:
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Fuck yeah!!! My very first online death threat! It's about motherfuckin' time!

But, I have a few questions for Mr. DAT MONEY.
1. You're calling me a racist, and telling me I'm going to get shot up, but you want to be my myspace friend? Are you going to shoot me and then nurse me back to health in a gazebo like a little duckling, thus ensuring a lifelong friendship? Will you send me an event invitation for this?

2. Are you being serious or is this a ha ha funny, spook the cracker type prank? Shit, sorry about the word spook. Also, is your threat of me getting shot up personal, or more like a general warning that someday, somebody will shoot me?

3. What's your criteria for deciding who is a "racist nigga"? And since I qualify, what do I win? Do I have to register?


...I wanted to know more about the man and his claim, so I put on my detective hat and got busy deducing truths from the clues Mr. DAT MONEY left behind. His digital footprint helped me solve the case and it goes like this...

I checked the location on his myspace page, which is Teaneck, New Jersey.
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HAW HAW! Tea-neck!


Then I checked my Sitemeter, which tracks the cities of people visiting this here blog, among other things. Got a hit from Elmwood Park, New Jersey. This is very near Teaneck. We have a winner.

I investigated further to see how he came across this site. It seems that he was searching google for Radio Raheem, the beloved character from Spike Lee's Do The Right Thing. It's one of my favorite movies, and deservedly so. If you haven't seen it, go see it now.

Radio Raheem
splainin' love and hate.


I did a post a while back entitled "I Killed Radio Raheem". It's a true story about how I had to kill a sick bird, who I dubbed Radio Raheem. Why? Because this is primarily a humor blog and I wanted to cut the tragedy with jokey jokes. Anyway, people searching for "Radio Raheem" will see that post listed in the results, including 18 year old death threat enthusiasts, apparently. Here's Mr. DAT MONEY's page.
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I mean, just check out this wondrous sentence in his "about me" section.

"My sneakerz are HOTT and can't nobody touch me on my sneaker game."

Oh yeah? Well, I challenge you to a sneak-off, chunk cunt! First prize is this llama/alpaca.
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I'm prepared to ride that baby off into the sunset, so you better practice your sneaker game, because I'm gonna touch 'em. I'm gonna touch the shit out of 'em, and I'm not scared of getting shot at. I've been shot and stabbed too many times to count, so I doubt one more bullet will make any difference. Go ahead and try to make me a ghost, I dare you.



Here's s'more Spike Lee "fuck you" racism montage work. Makes me want to get off the couch and actually edit something.

Precursor to this amazing scene in 25th Hour.




Seriously though, if you don't get the shit I do on this blog, you might see "I Killed Radio Raheem" and come to a number of conclusions. I came to a few conclusions after seeing Mr. DAT MONEY's myspace page, too. But I don't tell people that they will be full of bullets. That's just stupid and could easily get him into trouble if I were to report it. But I won't. The kid just seems misinformed and macho, an elegant combination. What do you think?

Sunday, September 28, 2008

Friday, September 26, 2008

Clayface McTaggert And I Reading Books And Discovering We Lost The Moves

I've all but disappeared these past weeks and I feel our readership requires an Apology. There is only one that will suffice. The Lords Apology.

Lost amongst the sands of time and recently translated from The Dead Sea Scrolls. For you I reproduce it here.

Thine Le Lord.
I have slathered upon my fellow man with glee.
For this I sacrifice my heart and sole.
Shoe's Soles.
I walk upon thine beaches shoeless and carefree.
For I have discovered in your glory and kindness, forgiveness.
I am but a bug in your eyes.

Thank You.

When computers shit.

HKEY_LOCAL_MACHINE\System\CurrentControlSet\Control\CrashControl

CrashDumpEnabled REG_DWORD 0x0 = None
CrashDumpEnabled REG_DWORD 0x1 = Complete memory dump
CrashDumpEnabled REG_DWORD 0x2 = Kernel memory dump
CrashDumpEnabled REG_DWORD 0x3 = Small memory dump (64KB)
Additional registry values for CrashControl:
0x0 = Disabled
0x1 = Enabled

AutoReboot REG_DWORD 0x1
DumpFile REG_EXPAND_SZ %SystemRoot%\Memory.dmp
LogEvent REG_DWORD 0x1
MinidumpDir REG_EXPAND_SZ %SystemRoot%\Minidump
Overwrite REG_DWORD 0x1
SendAlert REG_DWORD 0x1

Nerd poop jokes. I ask, "Why?" but I just don't care. I'm having a hard time here. Frankly, I'm in bad shape. I think it's time to get to know me so you can understand The Failure.

One thing that kept me busy was getting hit by a car. That's right folks, during one of the few times I ventured from my bed made of beer cans and books about space, I got hit by a car. I can't say too much cause it was my stupid fault. FUCK it hurt. I'm ok physically, for the most part. I basically just got knocked around a bit.

The Super Nintendo was a burly fucking machine. You could drop that little bastard from space and it would work. Underwater. With squids beating. Ranch.

I really like how cyberpunk authors write. They all use this cadence and a strict usage of dramatic grammar.

(stop)

:end tape:



Slaughtermatic by Steve Aylett is a really really good book. That's all.

Lately, whenever I read a news story, I get furious. It's mostly the information technologies stuff.

"In our connected world."
"This modern network."
"Pikachu has a gun to my head."

I just ate my weight in corn bread.


No Pictures. Sorry.

-Monty's Baseball Soup

Plans

I need to take a road trip soon. I can feel it.
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Maybe catch some rays
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Surround myself with fine art
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Indulge in local delicacies
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and visit old friends
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(via Banjo Wizard)

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Carl Winslow's Corner: Deranged Orgasmic Rampage

Hey gang! It's your old friend and favorite TV dad again, Carl Winslow.
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I just got back from the doctor, and he seems to think that my earlier behavior was the result of a benign brain tumor, and with the help of some pills he gave me, I can actually shrink the tumor, and return to my old sane self.

Well I got news for that motherfuckin' doctor; He can kiss my ass and blow my shit backwards if he thinks I'm gonna be taking any pills! I like who I've become. I like waking up with chunks of my thighs missing. I'm sucking out life forces, and living life in the fun lane.

In fact, I had a little fun at the medical building today before my doctor's appointment. I walked into a dentist's office on the third floor, killed Mister Dentist, assumed his identity, and puked in his patient's mouth.
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Then I went to my doctor's appointment like nothing happened. Easy Peasy.

Been spreading my breast milk around, too.
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You wouldn't believe how many people were raging to Carl Winslow's sweet milk.

As for me, I'm into latex cat bitches. I see them all day long regardless of whose toaster I tinkle in, so I'd better be into them. They're up in my sandwiches, too. I savor the flavor they leave behind.
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You can really taste their shadows.
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(original HCP via Uglyfood)

I've found that if you roll with insanity and don't fight it, everything comes into focus. You will become whatever you desire. The meat fortress of life awaits bold souls who cast off the shackles of rational thought and plunge deep into the gaga pond.
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(original meat hut photo via Uglyfood)

I'll be there, children, dreaming of sac dragons and crapping black dust.

Hope to see you soon.
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Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Babe, I Love You So, Please Don't Go

Blog update:

You might be asking yourself, "What the hell is going on with the banner at the top of this site? Why is Monty fading? Is this the Great Tribulation, the Campaign of Armageddon, and the Second Coming of the Messiah all those Christian kooks have been blabbing about? Is Uncle Monty ascending into the heavens to eat Gourmet Pringles with Jeezuss forever?"

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Nope.
What's going on is the same thing that occurred in the documentary Back To The Future. He is fading just like the picture of the McFly clan. His future and our past is at stake. In order to stop his slow fade into non-existence, Monty has to create some of his patented, high-octane, off the Walt, awesome blog posts. Even half of the effort of what he's brought to the table already is enough to derail the ghost train. Mini-posts, a paragraph, dick-pics, ankle critiques; any of these will help. America's future is at risk.

For every day without a Monty's Baseball Soup post, the disintegration of his sweet soul will continue. I have conversed with the Ra on this matter
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and he and I have devised a game plan that stops the atomic dispersion process. Every new post shall delay this tragic endgame for 3 days. After 3 days, the disbanding of Montgomery's matter will continue. Another post, another 3 days of being un-disappeared. This will go on until he is fully back in our realm, consulting the oracles of insanity and bloggin' bout it.


Honestly, does anybody want this to happen to America's Wisdom Grappler?
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Poof! Dust...
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NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!


Write to and plead with him to stop this from happening. Tell him why you like reading the inner workings of his brains. His email is radbombz@yahoo.com. Not kidding. I'd tell you his address, but I've never been to his house, and I'm not sure if he has a residence. We meet at a pet store to discuss business, and he always wears the same clothes.

I don't want to lose you, buddy. Reach deep down into your heart and pop out some Internet comfort food for all to enjoy. Or else...
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Monday, September 22, 2008

And on the Seventh Day, God Was Buggin'

"Stress is the result of resistance to experiencing what is happening."- Hans Selye
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(Hans Selye with his favorite mouse, Vein LoMein)


That pretty much sums up my life. I read that sentence earlier today, and it's been violently echoing through my mind. People are always asking me how I am, and my response is usually:

1. "I'm anxious and stressed out about nothing in particular."
2. "Shut up and bag my groceries."

Most of the time, when I say #1, they are sympathetic, but proceed to passive aggressively ask me what I have to be stressed about, tell me that things could be worse, give examples from their own life or conjure the story of some poor schmuck they know who's got worms. I know they're just trying to lighten the mood and cheer me up, but I can hear "GET OVER IT" cutting through their soothing tapestry. Or maybe they're preoccupied with the guy doing lines of werewolf hair in the hallway, and don't have time for whine.
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I'm just trying to express how I feel, and I definitely feel it, therefore, my stress is valid... Shit, I'm rambling and grumbling again.
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I tried to "let things happen without resistance" at the grocery store today. To just go through the process of choosing a cereal without over-thinking it, but I couldn't shake the feeling that what I was doing at that exact moment was a hassle and totally bullshit. I hate going to the grocery store and I hate driving and I don't want to get a job and I hate couples that shop for groceries together.

Hey lady! Yeah, you. It's obvious that your fiancé doesn't care whether you get regular or bold n' spicy Chex Mix. Stop it! Look at him, slumped over the shopping cart, eyes glazed, mentally undressing Aunt Jemima.
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(mocking jeer sing-song) That's gonna be your huzz bend! That's gonna be your huzz bend! That's gonna be your huzz bend!

Sunday, September 21, 2008

Saturday, September 20, 2008

Glitter Barf : Two Dumbasses

Really? You do realize that you have a $50,000 ode to mediocrity and lasagna around your neck, right? Has Garfield Minus Garfield taught you nothing? What's your next acquisition, a ruby-studded lunch box full of gummy worms?
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And you... shame on you and your passed-out public transportation boner. Camouflage shirt, too. Way to blend in, sugar-growler.
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Sadder Day

Today, I was visited by an old acquaintance of mine who I hadn't seen in a while. I call him Depression Toad.
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Up until a few weeks ago, I hadn't felt his presence in months. I had problems, sure, but nothing that couldn't be defeated with Internet porn, taking a walk while listening to music, reading magazines while drinking coffee, or thinking about Ol' Dirty Bastard.
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Then, my Zayde passed away. My enthusiasm for life, this blog, getting a job, and personal relationships greatly waned. I don't know if it was seeing my Bubbie in tears or lack of sleep coupled with the stress that week, but my general attitude changed. I was on a pretty good roll for a few months there, even after some invasive procedures into my stomach and teeth. But those three days in Toronto killed it.

When I got back, I decided that I needed new furniture, and spent too much time on craigslist procuring new items. I made new business cards. I got weirder with this blog. I did everything but sit down and talk about my shit to someone who cares enough about me to listen without passing judgment.

I realize now that I was just trying to keep myself busy, because I already knew that I had lost a step, and wanted desperately to keep rolling on as if nothing had changed. This faulty behavioral path backfired, obviously.

And today was a wakeup call. I got up after 11 hours of sleep, drank some coffee, felt horrible, took a nap, woke up, felt like compressed gray gloom, got invited out to a bar by a friend, declined, felt guilty, ate some food, and here we are.

The good thing is that I realize what I must do to pull out of this tailspin, and I will. But today reminded me of bleak Chicago winters, especially last winter, when everybody feels the way I did today; alone, tired, irritable, not wanting to go out, and having to psyche yourself up to get up and go to the bathroom or make something to eat.

I truly fear those winter days, because I need a little help from somebody who cares during those times. But it's hard to get together, as people are reticent to do anything outside their comfortably heated apartments, and they probably feel like shit as well. I'm not good on the phone, so I need to meet up with someone in person. But it takes a reason or a gimmick to get someone to come out of the house when it's 14 degrees outside and the sun was last seen with its father, Gilberto Hernandez, last November (missing children jokes are hilarious, right?). God, Jesus, Allah, and Buddha, I hate the fucking winter!

But maybe that's what this blog is for, on certain occasions. Letting off some steam so my pipes don't burst. Shifting the burden of sadness from me onto you. I hope my wretched rant wasn't too much, and if you've gotten this far, thanks for reading. I feel better already.

What do you say, Depression Toad?
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Friday, September 19, 2008

Dick You, Bitch! Stop Me!

Once, when my son and I were hunting, I followed a gazelle, leaving my child to tend to our donkeys.
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A She-ghoul swooped out of nowhere and ate my child.
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A week went by, and when Friday came, a stranger raised his tent pole not far from my village.
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He emerged from his shelter one night and wandered into a saloon.
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“This is truly a fine moonlight night for a drinking bout,” he proclaimed, “It quite reminds me of the night when Prince Kang feasted at Pear-Blossom Island.”
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I asked him if he was hungry, and on receiving no answer, pushed some food over towards him. The stranger immediately set to feeding himself by handfuls, and in no time a shoulder of pork and a quantity of boiled dumplings had disappeared.
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His appetite was appeased and he turned to thank me, saying, “For three years I haven’t had such a meal.” He then drew a short sword from his belt, and, tapping the blade with his fingers, began to accompany it with a song.
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The song put me to sleep and upon opening my eyes I was among the clouds, and around me was a fleecy atmosphere. Jumping up in great alarm, I felt giddy as if I had been at sea, and underneath my feet I found a soft, yielding substance unlike the earth.
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“I am the Arcturus star," the stranger said. "Your friendship is cherished by me. Truly our destinies are knitted together, and I will repay your kindness by becoming your son.”
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I said to him, “If you really are one of those wonderful creatures, you will be able to get me anything I want; and I should be much obliged if you would begin by giving me five ounces of silver."
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Upon making my request, I was carried away by a typhoon. After being tossed about for many days and nights I arrived at a country where the people were hideously ugly.
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Looking in a mirror, I saw an awful sight. I soon realized that the image in the looking glass was my own face. My eyeballs protruded, my beard curled up like a hedgehog, my ears drooped forward in flaps, and I had three nostrils.
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It is a wise rule to resist the beginnings of evil.