Right, well.
I've been gone. Now I'm back. I might talk about it later. To keep the bored insomniacs busy, here's a sample of things to come, outside-project-wise. Blasphemy, it burns so good.
Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the universe, a bacon-eating egocentric deity-- one rarely invited to the Semi-Annual Gods and Monsters/CEOs Ski 'n' Shrimp Retreat (due to a nasty incident one weekend involving fermented moose juice and an inebriated marketing demon, two or three millennia after his Official God or Godlike Figure Club Card was printed)-- runs a small, unregarded yet terribly self-important galaxy known as ARDA. Populating its single, occasionally gravity-defying habitable planet are a number of "intelligent" species, the dominants of which are so primitive that they still think bronze, well-made rope and the internet are pretty neat ideas.
This world has-- or rather had-- a problem, which was this: most of the people, animated trees, or the strange, greasy dust motes known as hobbits were unhappy, terrorized, evil, unbathed, or simply poorly dressed. All of the time. There were several proposed solutions to this problem, but most of these were concerned with overeating or with the creation of large, shiny rocks, both leading, of course, straight back to unhappiness, terror, evil, and nasty fabric stains.
And so the problem remained; lots of the people were evil, most of them were unwashed, and the vast majority of them were cranky and very serious, even the ones with well-made bronze rope and DSL.
Many species (save one) wished that they had an evolutionary history in order to make sarcastic remarks about the colossal mistake of slipping out of primordial ooze, as they were so cranky and all now that they had done and evolved into tall floaty blondes/small hairy things, etc., but above-mentioned bacon-eater was never the patient type, and preferred to simply wink them into existence rather than twiddle his thumbs while waiting for his Firstborn to grow arms. Arda as a whole resented this to the last, particularly the spectacularly cranky denizens of Arda's spring of cranky hubbub, Middle-earth.
However, one afternoon on some day undefined because of the weirdness of Middle-earthean timekeeping (largely done with timestamps, it's said), a young housefly buzzing alone through a Starbucks realized what had been going wrong all this time, and saw exactly how to make the world a happier, vastly more hygienic place. But she was, after all, a housefly, and therefore had only managed to type one or two letters of a broadcast email before she was swatted and eaten by a dirty, dirty hobbitchild.
This is not her story. The fly's or the dirty hobbitchild's.
But it is the story of an unfortunate event that took place sometime after.
And of an unremarkable, designer-impostor travel guide, struggling to keep its head above water financially while operating in direct "competition" with the corporate behemoth of their rival guide. Utterance of said behemoth's published work's title by the lesser book's staff is punishable by death.
It is also the story of a gay alien. Stop me if you've heard this one.
Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the universe, a bacon-eating egocentric deity-- one rarely invited to the Semi-Annual Gods and Monsters/CEOs Ski 'n' Shrimp Retreat (due to a nasty incident one weekend involving fermented moose juice and an inebriated marketing demon, two or three millennia after his Official God or Godlike Figure Club Card was printed)-- runs a small, unregarded yet terribly self-important galaxy known as ARDA. Populating its single, occasionally gravity-defying habitable planet are a number of "intelligent" species, the dominants of which are so primitive that they still think bronze, well-made rope and the internet are pretty neat ideas.
This world has-- or rather had-- a problem, which was this: most of the people, animated trees, or the strange, greasy dust motes known as hobbits were unhappy, terrorized, evil, unbathed, or simply poorly dressed. All of the time. There were several proposed solutions to this problem, but most of these were concerned with overeating or with the creation of large, shiny rocks, both leading, of course, straight back to unhappiness, terror, evil, and nasty fabric stains.
And so the problem remained; lots of the people were evil, most of them were unwashed, and the vast majority of them were cranky and very serious, even the ones with well-made bronze rope and DSL.
Many species (save one) wished that they had an evolutionary history in order to make sarcastic remarks about the colossal mistake of slipping out of primordial ooze, as they were so cranky and all now that they had done and evolved into tall floaty blondes/small hairy things, etc., but above-mentioned bacon-eater was never the patient type, and preferred to simply wink them into existence rather than twiddle his thumbs while waiting for his Firstborn to grow arms. Arda as a whole resented this to the last, particularly the spectacularly cranky denizens of Arda's spring of cranky hubbub, Middle-earth.
However, one afternoon on some day undefined because of the weirdness of Middle-earthean timekeeping (largely done with timestamps, it's said), a young housefly buzzing alone through a Starbucks realized what had been going wrong all this time, and saw exactly how to make the world a happier, vastly more hygienic place. But she was, after all, a housefly, and therefore had only managed to type one or two letters of a broadcast email before she was swatted and eaten by a dirty, dirty hobbitchild.
This is not her story. The fly's or the dirty hobbitchild's.
But it is the story of an unfortunate event that took place sometime after.
And of an unremarkable, designer-impostor travel guide, struggling to keep its head above water financially while operating in direct "competition" with the corporate behemoth of their rival guide. Utterance of said behemoth's published work's title by the lesser book's staff is punishable by death.
It is also the story of a gay alien. Stop me if you've heard this one.