a blog’s life

The title of my blog, “Nonsensical Text,” is actually taken from the name of a file on my computer. Many years ago, my closest friend was living in another state. At around that time, the hubster was trying to ease my fear of technology by introducing me to the more people-friendly aspects of computers. He did this by signing me up for an email list of stay-home moms (and one dad), and by finding a new network on IRC where we could go to “chat” with our dear friend.

Having developed a tradition of relay-writing when my friend lived in another country (that entailed actual pens, paper, stamps, and patience), we decided that we should continue this trend online. When other people started joining us in our little IRC chat room, we would make up silly limericks, one line at a time - awarding kudos for creative input from any and all. We also began the silly story.

Now, one of the primary goals of these little stories was to be as random and ridiculous as possible while still maintaining some semblance of a plotline. A few of them were deemed worthy of the old “cut, paste, and save.” My favorite of those was entitled “Nonsensical.” It was saved as a text file, thus “Nonsensical Text.” When I made the decision to start blogging, it seemed like such an obvious choice for a title.

I have always been a kaleidoscope with flakes and shards of inanity and profundity dancing a complicated rhythm to a rapid beat – sometimes colliding forcefully with comedic or brutal results.

At some point in the past few months, I seem to have misplaced my nonsense.

So, in an attempt to jump start my silly, I am hereby posting the original “Nonsensical.” Parts in italics were played by me, the others played by my friend. Please keep in mind, it WAS very late at night.

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Whilst walking through the jungle, one particularly steamy day, backpack on head, I came across a.... (your turn)
slathering Siberian tiger, ready to give birth. I had a medical kit with me, so put on my gloves and
my boots, put up my umbrella in case it rained, and opened my dictionary under Siberian. Unfortunately
the dictionary was in Portuguese, which I do not read. So I went to the nearest...
snowball stand and bought a chocolate marshmallow blueberry lima bean snowball for the tiger, as I had heard it gives energy during labour. But
the tiger began to choke on the lima beans, causing me to jump up and down on her chest, while trying to appear unobtrusive. The cubs splurted out with each jump, but alas, the lima bean remained lodged, until...
an earthquake hit the scene. The tiger tumbled down the gap between the plates, and got stuck in the dishwashing liquid

At this point I remembered my jungle quake survival guide. Pulling it out, I found the solution to the problem. But where to get a half dozen African elephants in heat??
I called a friend of mine in Norway, on my cellular, as he had said he had connections. He promised to fly them out on the next boomerang (he was stationed in Australia) Just then I remembered
the aeronautical improbability of catching a boomerang big enough to hold the expected parcel. So I set about building a high powered electronic baseball mitt. Unfortunately, the cubs were crying for milk. Becoming distracted, I accidentally...
knocked my chest with the hammer I was using, and triggered a let down. The cubs clambered all over me, 15 of them, and I could scarcely locate my
pillows. After all the cubs were satisfied, I dropped in a dead faint from the exertion. A passing bookmobile collected me and deposited me on the steps of the local library
where a janitor picked me up and dropped me in the trash can. I suppose I did look rather disheveled. Well, as luck would have it, I had a bag of M&S chocolate buttons tucked in the back of my bra, so I tried to reach it, but
an alley cat was busily fiddling with my bra strap, in an attempt to steal my precious cargo. In the fury of the natural chocolate protection instinct, I inadvertently
ate the cat by mistake. oh what a disaster. All that came to mind in my frenzied paranoid vegetarian hypocritical state was
spit or swallow? (original text)
how to cover up the unmistakable odor of partially digested cat from my breath. So I reached around, rapidly this time before more harm should befall me, and gobbled the whole bag of buttons (edit)

as the sweet nectar reached my esophagus I drifted on into a state of blissful nothingness. But, like all good things,
there was a negative side. My esophagus was apparently having a very bad day, and tried to horde all the chocolate, allowing none to pass beyond it. As a result, my throat swelled to the size of the Goodyear blimp, and my face started to look like
a maggot infested basketball. I began to fear that no one would ever recognise me, when I remembered the tiger cubs. It occurred to me that I had left them behind, with a dozen horny elephants (I think?). I thought I
would take advantage of my current proportions, and bounce back to my prior locale. However, the directional course finder that I had previously installed in my earlobes had been knocked askew by the bookmobile driver, so I
pulled an inflatable motorcycle out of the locket I always wear. By the time I had finished blowing it up, it was very late in the day and I began to crave some
piping hot lentil bean soup. So I set up camp in a nearby tree, reconstituted some soup out of the pills in my survival kit, and deflated my throat with a knitting needle (pre sterilized). I settled down to get some rest only to find
I had sat on a slug. Figuring that this day was just not going to get better by itself, I decided to go buy a keg of beer. I had money tucked inside my sock, so I set off for the liquor store.

On the way, however,
I was affronted by a passing missionary who mistook me for a member of the goola goola tribe. He shoved a goolanese bible into my hands and began to loudly sing "Blest Be the Tie that Binds". Feeling a bit powerless, I found myself
kneeling down before him and mumbling goolanese prayers to the goolabong in the sky. When I arose, the missionary slapped me on the back in a congratulatory fashion, but he opened the knitting needle hole in my neck with the force, and all the chocolate buttons squirted out on him. He thought it was a miracle, and started
to dance around speaking in tongues. Unfortunately the language uttered was the mating call for the goolanese wild boar. He was quite unprepared for their affection. Taking this as an opportunity for escape, I
donned my clown suit, which was hanging on a nearby tree, and leaped into the pouch of a kangaroo. Steering, by the reins I found inside (which later turned out to be
a bungee cord left there when the previous occupant vacated), I made my way quickly back to the deserted cubs where I found
that they had built a log cabin out of gopher wood. I went inside, and there on the table was a
patented acme soap sucking device. I assembled it quickly after disregarding the instructions and ran from the cabin.
I was expecting the cubs to follow me, I'm not sure to this day why I ran from the cabin, but some inner force made me do it. Alas, the cubs did not follow. I returned cautiously, peeked through the window, and found that the soap sucking device was actually the mother tiger reincarnated!

I must say, to all the children who hear my tale, that I have never been so satisfied that my pain led to another's gain. Just think, had I not had a knitting needle with me, those cubs may never have got their real mother back. The end.

the moral is, never leave home without a knitting needle