Posts Tagged ‘weird’

Imagine if I could feed the world … with SONG!

That almost is a song.

My voice filling the airways, filling stomachs – when usually, it does the opposite: see

Check out the dying days of the Joe Chip Empire here

…the horror…

…the horror…

Reader, I cheat again, but you will see why if you click here

Here at the Joe Chip Laboratories, we try not to eat the living.  or even bits of the living.  And you wonder how the zombie apocalypse is actually going to start – its going to be with guys like these.

“Ma, I don’ feel so well.”

“You look awful – you bin eatin’ anything strange?”

“I didn’t eat it, it were only in my mouth but a moment.”

“Well Bubba stop chewin on me!”

[HP Lovecraft would envy my dialogue.]

Stolen from Mr Battersby.

Hair don’t taste like chicken,

except for chicken hair, which is very rare,

because chickens grow feathers most everywhere.

.

Useless reptilian descendants,

scratching round, pecking the ground,

you’re just the dinosaur’s genetic burial mound.

.

Pointless hairless, flightless birds,

can’t feed your children with lactation,

have you absolutely no mammalian aspiration?

.

Eek eek.

Baby.

Those of you who have been subscribing to the analytical reports of the Chip Laboratories since ancient times know of our well founded efforts to ethicise (ha! take that, dictionary) omnivorism.  We are trying folks, we really are.  We have put all of this week’s grant money into considering balloon animals.

Some of you maybe scoffing, as you associate these creatures with parlour games and carnivals.  However, I am not talking about simple domesticated balloon animals.   I am talking about great sweeping herds of massive fortean creatures, blocking the sun on their nomadic trek as passenger pigeons once did sweeping across America.  And no, there would be no reliance on foul, poisonous oxygen.  These are great helium or methane filled beasts, nodding and swaying as they are blown by the currents of wind, just as giant jelly fish are swept across oceans.  Picture them now in your mind, see them billowing and filling the sky.  Tremendous storms of them.  The wondrous sight of them as they rail against the elements, indeed as they rail against their own ridiculous existence.  Observing them as over time they are pitted by hail, scarred by lightning.  And the wonder of them is that their pseudo life is no life at all, it is a mere impersonation.  Brave balloon bound hunters shall pursue them without ethical quandary, intrepid mountaineers shall stalk them to their winter homes, small children and we here at the laboratory shall wonder at them.

O!  If only we could get some nutrition into their skins!  Some flavour into the rubber.  Some texture into their form.  And find some way to stop giant sea turtles from choking on them in their thousands when they critters deflate and drop into the sea.  Perhaps it is impossible.  But is not the dream as important as any mere actuality?  At least this dream can unite us all, omnivores, carnivores, vegetarians, vegans, fruitarians, lacto-vegetarians, lacto-ovo-vegetarians, pescetarians, pollotarians, and pollo-pescetarians, the dream of the hunt of the giant pseudo-beasts in the sky that can sustain us all without troubling our consciences.

Until then, at least we have salad.

[“Life’s Solution” by Simon Conway Morris, p112 ‘Fortean bladders’]

Joe Chip, you are such a child, you hide your feelings by joking about them, you cannot even write the word “LOVE” – there, was that so hard?  Now, I want you to really chow down, there, get stuck into it, a great big plate of love.  There is going to be a lot of work in this taste test, Joe.  You have to work your way through a kilometre (1) of chocolate before you even get to the cardboard of pulped cards.  There are so many layers to this planet.  I know no human should have to eat roses, but Joe, it is for science, you cannot let a few mouthfuls of thorns get in your way.  Stuffed animals and inedible poem after inedible poem.  I know Joe, I feel your pain.  Here is a hard bit – you are going to fall a great distance through a void.  Your guts are going to flip, they will flop, your hormones will go astray, yes, even though you are a boy.  It won’t seem empty for a while, there are giga-years of trite and awful songs to accompany you, the god-awful soundtrack to your descent (2).

Are you in the darkness Joe?  Do you feel the pressure of the vacuum?  How rarefied the air, here in the middle.  How lonely you are!  But I want you to persist.  You are too far for the lights of distant galaxies to penetrate.  You are going to have to do this by touch.  You will need to trust that you still have senses, and that there is something to detect.

Feel them?  The rocks?  The weathered crusts, the wrinkles?  There is no air blowing down here, Joe.  If anything is smooth, it is because it is worn by years.  Don’t bite Joe, it will break your teeth.  There are no soft centres here.  There are no soft exteriors.  Not down in the pit of love.  This love is ugly, Joe.  This love is ancient couples, sculpted by years.  This love sits quietly next to a shell that memory has deserted.  This love feeds a child that can never love back.  This love is dribbling, Joe.  This love has forgotten its dreams and turns up to work each day.  Its nails are broken, its fingers blue.  None of this love is what it was, Joe.  None of it is what it thought it would be.  It is spastic, it is crippled, it is overweight, it is anaemic, it is windblown and time torn, years shrunk and care worn.  This love endured, Joe.  It is ugly.  It is beautiful.

Yes Joe, I know it is hard to taste with that crass red rayon teddy caught between your teeth (3).  I wish you could have skipped that level, or taken a more expensive route at least (4).   The things you do for science (5).

 

(1)  Science is metric.

(2) ha ha, he is falling in love.

(3) cheap lingerie, the scabby gifts men buy for themselves but pretend even to themselves that it is for someone else.  French maids outfit, anyone?  Sexy nurse, perhaps?

(4) such is the level of our funding.

(5) Happy Valentine’s Day, scientists.  Your mate loves youse all!

Ancient Astronauts,

You taste like Mayans

You forbade the Israelites

eating crispy bacon

You left puzzles lying round

for us to find

Don’t you think that that

was rather unkind?

Your mysteries got us thinking

which interfered with

our time for drinking.

You built the Sphinx

You built Ancient Rome

Then you left us alone

when you returned home.

Ancient Astronaut Dad

do you love me the most?

I’ve made your favourite meal

Canned spaghetti on toast*.

*****

*Coming soon.  With pictures.#

#Don’t build it up too much idiot, its not that good.%

%Neither is this poem.^

^Poem?  You call this a poem.  This is rubbish.  But its Saturday and I had to post something.”

“Well what are you going to post on your poetry blog then>

> ……………..  the same thing?

The portal to all things Joe Chippish is here, just a click away.

After extensive experimentation in the Chip Laboratory, it has been determined that despite many claims being made about their inherent nature, flags are essentially flavourless.  It is the nature of a flag that it may be likened to a thin bland filo pastry, dependent upon that which it envelops for its flavour.  A flag may be an encasing on a sausage roll, or it may have a fruity filling.  A flag may also be thought of as tofu, useful for soaking up the flavours in a laksa, but otherwise, bleh, what is the point.

A flag may also have other useful qualities.  In Glossolalia, they are often flown from expensive (and unnecessary) utes*, so that upon awakening from a drunken stupor, the driver knows what country they are in.  However, my view is that there should be very little call for a nation’s flag to be flown within the borders of that nation.  Really, the only flags that should be flown are those of other countries, at their embassies for example.  Otherwise, one could just have a piece of material with the word “FLAG” printed on it, because barring some damage to brain, we all know what it is.  The only flags for domestic purposes should be those associated with the things that separate us, not the things that bind us, like flags for sporting teams or service organisations (you know, like Lions will kill Rotary, that sort of thing), or schools or perhaps class (for example, a flag signifying ‘intelligentsia of working class origin’, which can also be signified by lack of a Porsche, I have found).

National flags are excellent for Olympics and in association with killing foreigners, that makes perfect sense, it is the domestic use of national flags that puzzles me.  One’s neighbours may fly flags from their homes to prove their patriotism.  I would prefer it if they paid their taxes and reported all suspicious behaviour to the authorities.  I see politicians adorned with them, sports persons draped in them, young men with them tattooed on their necks.  My favourite is seeing children ignoring them.  It is disrespectful to burn a flag and I do not approve of that, but there are many other things of which I disapprove more.  However, these are my personal opinions and have nothing to do with my expert taste testing laboratories.

Flags taste only of other things.  They can taste of virtue, hope, respect, eagerness and pride.  Sometimes they have crunchy centres that taste of avarice, cowardice and hypocrisy.  In too many of the flags we tasted, all other tastes were overwhelmed by blood.  However, we have determined beyond doubt that a flag can certainly taste like chicken.

(The Joe Chip portal has been updated and can be observed by clicking here.  Please have a look, there is a nice picture of a falcon on a power pole.)

*perhaps you refer to them as pickups or bakkes – the little trucks favoured by persons of trade, and also by other persons who have no need for such a truck.