Heard It Through the Grapevine
Before I leave for the great state of New York where I will witness a couple, partially related to me in the sense that I share with half the couple what was at one time the same X chromosome though it has undoubtedly undergone some mutation, enter the great state of holy matrimony I wish to discuss a topic that had originally left me in a great state of confusion. I have a great statement to make on this topic.
There is a town off the 5th Interstate that spans the great state of California. This town is called by the natives Gorman. It comes from the ancient language spoken in that town. The natives called it Gronam. A dyslexic settler from the great territory of Puerto Rico named Sean Weinstein came in his 4-snake drawn covered Radio Flyer in the year 1843. He and his company quickly exterminated the natives, who had inferior, solar-powered nuclear war heads which were no match for Weinstein's bows and arrows and acute awareness of anachronisms.
Weinstein decided to keep the name the natives gave the land so he would not need to reprint the postcards and t-shirts. However, he did make so bold as to erect a water tower. Lest passersby become disoriented, he proudly and prominently displayed the name of his town that he gained through the ruthless but completely acceptable slaughter of an inferior people. From then on the town was known to all but Weinstein as Gorman.
Years passed before the citizens of Gorman had contact with the outside world. Years turned to decades, decades to more decades, and those decades to a century and a few more decades. On January 28th 1958 the Sizzler Family Steakhouse opened its second restaurant in Gorman, California, only a three-night's journey by ambergris-powered dirigible. The advent of the Sizzler opened the doors of Gorman to such modern wonders as a Carl's Jr. and a Chevron.
One should not be fooled by the quaint and friendly appearance of Gorman. Recently I discovered (from a distance, as no self-respecting human would venture to this land, especially after hearing the following) a horrible secret in Gorman.
The red-eyed locals, with their prehensile tails and self-lacing shoes, greet visitors with a Swiss cheese smile and a filthy-palmed wave. Their agrarian quips and witticisms can be disarming, but to the attentive visitor they quickly become suspicious. I will give you an example in case you plan on visiting this place.
A local will first say something like, "Easy as falling off a log." But soon this same local may be saying things like, "Easy as falling into a Gormanian outsider-trap and becoming part of the Gormanian zombie army."
Though, I admit, the two are very similar and almost indistinguishable from each other, I urge you to look very closely until you can see the difference.
If you do not enter any one of the three or four buildings in Gorman you may hear the locals communicating in their characteristics Gormanian low grunts, high-pitched squeals, and tongue clicking. Linguists are almost positive that Gormanian is not an actual language but is in fact just low grunts, high-pitched squeals, and tongue clicks. That is to say, there are no definite sounds for specific ideas or objects and there is certainly no grammar of any kind. Some noted anthropolgists believe that the locals simply do this to assert dominace: whoever can make the most noise for the longest time is the winner. Often these "Gormanian Conversations" can last 4 or 5 days.
But I digress, I intended to inform you, the reader, of Gorman's dark secret. The mayor of Gorman, a cipple of both the body and mind as well as the best kept secret of the Ralphs family (the grocery tycoons) and the supposed ninth incarnation of Sean Weinstein, is breeding an army of zombies so gruesome and powerful that not even Barstow, with its army of atomic land manatees, will stand a chance. The citizens of Gorman are somehow immune to the zombificating effects of the yellow flowers that blanket the hillside overlooking their community. If Gorman is planning, as I fear they are, to conquer the entire Central Valley of California, only 40 people (approximately) will be left to take care of most of California's agriculture. Perhaps their plan is to hold the state hostage, but God only knows what kind of demands such a people would have.
The best we can do for now is avoid Gorman by as far as possible. If you must go near Gorman, please do not pull over. There is a Flying J three miles away. We can only prepare for the full scale invasion, but we can have at least a day's warning. Keep your ear to the ground and you may hear the ancient Gormanian shrieks accompanied by a traditional Gormanian musical instrument made from a rake, the bones of a fully-transformed werebarrista, and petroleum jelly.
Good luck, and may God help us all.
There is a town off the 5th Interstate that spans the great state of California. This town is called by the natives Gorman. It comes from the ancient language spoken in that town. The natives called it Gronam. A dyslexic settler from the great territory of Puerto Rico named Sean Weinstein came in his 4-snake drawn covered Radio Flyer in the year 1843. He and his company quickly exterminated the natives, who had inferior, solar-powered nuclear war heads which were no match for Weinstein's bows and arrows and acute awareness of anachronisms.
Weinstein decided to keep the name the natives gave the land so he would not need to reprint the postcards and t-shirts. However, he did make so bold as to erect a water tower. Lest passersby become disoriented, he proudly and prominently displayed the name of his town that he gained through the ruthless but completely acceptable slaughter of an inferior people. From then on the town was known to all but Weinstein as Gorman.
Years passed before the citizens of Gorman had contact with the outside world. Years turned to decades, decades to more decades, and those decades to a century and a few more decades. On January 28th 1958 the Sizzler Family Steakhouse opened its second restaurant in Gorman, California, only a three-night's journey by ambergris-powered dirigible. The advent of the Sizzler opened the doors of Gorman to such modern wonders as a Carl's Jr. and a Chevron.
One should not be fooled by the quaint and friendly appearance of Gorman. Recently I discovered (from a distance, as no self-respecting human would venture to this land, especially after hearing the following) a horrible secret in Gorman.
The red-eyed locals, with their prehensile tails and self-lacing shoes, greet visitors with a Swiss cheese smile and a filthy-palmed wave. Their agrarian quips and witticisms can be disarming, but to the attentive visitor they quickly become suspicious. I will give you an example in case you plan on visiting this place.
A local will first say something like, "Easy as falling off a log." But soon this same local may be saying things like, "Easy as falling into a Gormanian outsider-trap and becoming part of the Gormanian zombie army."
Though, I admit, the two are very similar and almost indistinguishable from each other, I urge you to look very closely until you can see the difference.
If you do not enter any one of the three or four buildings in Gorman you may hear the locals communicating in their characteristics Gormanian low grunts, high-pitched squeals, and tongue clicking. Linguists are almost positive that Gormanian is not an actual language but is in fact just low grunts, high-pitched squeals, and tongue clicks. That is to say, there are no definite sounds for specific ideas or objects and there is certainly no grammar of any kind. Some noted anthropolgists believe that the locals simply do this to assert dominace: whoever can make the most noise for the longest time is the winner. Often these "Gormanian Conversations" can last 4 or 5 days.
But I digress, I intended to inform you, the reader, of Gorman's dark secret. The mayor of Gorman, a cipple of both the body and mind as well as the best kept secret of the Ralphs family (the grocery tycoons) and the supposed ninth incarnation of Sean Weinstein, is breeding an army of zombies so gruesome and powerful that not even Barstow, with its army of atomic land manatees, will stand a chance. The citizens of Gorman are somehow immune to the zombificating effects of the yellow flowers that blanket the hillside overlooking their community. If Gorman is planning, as I fear they are, to conquer the entire Central Valley of California, only 40 people (approximately) will be left to take care of most of California's agriculture. Perhaps their plan is to hold the state hostage, but God only knows what kind of demands such a people would have.
The best we can do for now is avoid Gorman by as far as possible. If you must go near Gorman, please do not pull over. There is a Flying J three miles away. We can only prepare for the full scale invasion, but we can have at least a day's warning. Keep your ear to the ground and you may hear the ancient Gormanian shrieks accompanied by a traditional Gormanian musical instrument made from a rake, the bones of a fully-transformed werebarrista, and petroleum jelly.
Good luck, and may God help us all.