Friday, December 02, 2005

Memories...

Ganked from Ulitave:

If you're as completely exasperated by revisions (or whatever it is that you do all day) as I am today, why not post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL memory of you and me? It can be anything you want – good or bad – BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE. When you're finished, post this little paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people DON'T ACTUALLY remember about you.
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2 comments:

Anonymous said...

Ah, yes, I remember it well: the night in the sweltering Mississippi summer of 1991 when we took the stage in the tiny Club Getulaid, facing all 6 drunken patrons with nothing but our instruments and our heart-on-sleeve poetry. It was hard to compete with the atmosphere, as the sight of the 300-pound Samoan putting his hand where the amputee's knee should have been was fairly distracting. (I never did figure out to what gender identification his would-be partner subscribed.) Not to mention the fact that the bartender kept waving a Luger at us and the stench wafting from the bathroom would have wilted a porcupine's quills.

You, of course, tried at every turn to upstage me with your relentless showboating. (Just because you mastered "Flight of the Bumblebee" on the ukelele doesn't mean you should insert its melody into every fill, especially on my tunes.) Fortunately, the talent scout lying in a puddle of his own mucus at the foot of the stage recognized the true talent inherent in my Jew's harp playing, which led to the worldwide recording contract, the relentless tours, the mansion in Idaho, my insatiable cinnamon habit, rehab, the thousands-selling autobiography, the talk shows and my recent comeback.

You, meanwhile, have contented yourself with opening a modest nasal cleansing business. I understand you inflict your uke skills on your customers at every opportunity. Someday, perhaps, you'll learn the value of taste.

I think about you from time to time while I while away the hours in my mocha-filled Jacuzzi, idly smearing canola oil on the failed porno actress. How different our fates might have been if that scout hadn't chosen that moment to projectile vomit. It's funny how the gods shift their allegiance, isn't it?

Michael

10:30 AM
BB said...

I'm howling here...!

10:43 AM

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