More Philosophical Phlippage

Back to post more phlippage. It's a tragic day, sports fans. The mighty boys of Troy are playing like the JV squad from my high school. My poor Klang sits in the seat of honor wringing his hands in agony. I'm not sure who showed up to play the Beavers, but it wasn't the team who played the Buckeyes and squashed them. Maybe that team is still waiting in the locker room, but unfortunately, it's the one in LA. That makes this a sadder version of phlippage.

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The queen sat on her throne and gazed out over the kingdom. Dark clouds loomed on the horizon. Lightning flashed low on the hills and the sound of distant thunder crackled. The king had been gone a long while fighting the foolish wars of men. To the queen, anything that would take her beloved away for so long was foolish. War topped her list of foolish. She'd waited many sleepless nights for any word from the King, but none was heard. She sighed a heavy sigh and got up from the throne. Perhaps a walk through the garden would lift her spirits.

Reaching the garden, she found her favorite spot shrouded in the dismal gray that filled the sky. Once bright and lovely colors were muted; their brilliance hidden. Once more she sighed. She longed for a bright spot. Something to hold on to. Something to shed some light into her world that only seemed to be growing darker and darker.

Suddenly, the sky overhead seemed to split and simultaneously a bolt of lightning and a crack of thunder shook the world around her. She grabbed her ears which were ringing loudly from the thunder. Her eyes were dazzled by the lightning making it difficult to see much of anything around her. Some stange light in the corner of the garden began to penetrate the flash's damage to her eyes. She turned toward it and began to walk.

As she got closer, she noticed that some of the rock on the wall of the garden had been blasted away. The light was glowing out of the crevice made by the bolt. Carefully she reached her hand into the hole. It touched something very warm. She put her hand around it and the warmth began to spread throughout her body. A tingling sensation ran up her arm and was soon coursing through every part. As she pulled her hand out, she slowly opened it revealling a smooth, blue stone. Turning it over she noticed that it was glowing from within. Something told her that this was danger. Something else told her it was the greatest find in all of history. Her mind began to reel with the possibilities, but no real thought was able to etch itself onto her conscious mind, for as she turned the stone over in her hand, the tingling sensation growing ever more persistent, she collapsed to the ground and the stone rolled from her hand. As the stone rolled away, the rain began to fall.

That's all for now. More later.

Phlippage

Ah yes, in the land of lullaby, around the wondrous days of yore, they came across a sort of blog, bound up w/ chains and locked w/ locks and labelled, "Kindly do not touch; it's 'hers'!" A decree was issued round about, all w/ a flourish and a shout and a depraved, mascachistic AP student tripping on the floor. "Don't fiddle w/ this deadly blog or break the chains or pick the locks. And don't ever play about it's 'hers'." Well, the students understood, the students tried hard to be good and they didn't try to play about w/ "hers." They didn't try to pick the locks or break the chains or bash the blog. They never tried to play about w/ "hers." But someone did. Someone crashed in the mid and spilled the contents of the blog across the air. A sort of disconnected thought, w/o much brain is what they got and it bumped into everything there. And what was sad and most unfair, is that the "hers" didn't seem to care about being late, or what doggies ate, or just making it in the door. "Hers" lashed right out w/ a terrible shout "Get in your seat and shut your mouth. Be prepared!" Well, that's what been left here. It's been bouncing round for years and years and nothing seems capable of keeping it in store. So a solution you do seek? Well, here's a little peak.... Give the teacher a break, for goodness sake, the classroom's "hers."

A nod to a poem entitled "The Box" should be given here.