The only thing funnier than pathetic setbacks are when those pathetic setbacks are memorialized in story. I avoided the normal pairing of Tragedy w/ Comedy, because Farce is directly related to Tragedy. Farce is Tragedy that fails to elicit sympathy and instead summons the audience's smug contempt. Really, I paired these two, because I'm hoping one of the combatants will successfully combine BOTH Farce AND Tragedy into a single composition.
Combat Expiration: 12am PST, 10/31/2010
Critique Expiration: 12am PST, 11/1/2010
Bonuses/Penalties: +2 if posted by 6pm PST 10/29/2010, +1 if posted by 12am PST, 10/30/2010.
The Rules: http://combatwords.blogspot.com/2010/07/official-rules-for-combatwords-updated.html
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All Together Now
ReplyDelete99 bottles of beer on the wall, 99 bottles of beer
If one of those bottle should happen to fall,
98 bottles of beer on the wall
The singing was my idea. Frankly, I felt a little bad; not about the plan in general, but let’s face it, this is a tense situation, and I didn’t see why we shouldn’t try to lighten things up a bit. Mom always said that even as a kid I was always trying to make peace between the other kids. What can I say, I don’t like conflict.
98 bottles of beer on the wall, 98 bottles of beer
Mohammed suggested we sing some Beatles, but I hate the Beatles, and besides, I was already ticked off at him for leaving the transmitter on, not that it really matters at this point. Shut up and fly is what I said to him, slamming the door of the cockpit behind me.
Who’s up for a singalong? I cried.
86 bottles of beer on the wall, 86 bottles of beer...
Nobody answered until I waved my box cutter around menacingly. Help me out here, I said to Wail, but he was on his hands and knees. I dropped my knife, he complained. I don’t know how he ever got picked for this gig. Fucking klutz.
61 bottles of beer on the wall, 61 bottles of beer
Eventually we got nearly everyone singing along, even though some of them were kind of crying as they sang. Still, I think it really lightened the mood, and when the city skyline appeared, I felt positively euphoric. Isn’t this great? I asked Abdul, and he nodded, smiling and popping open a can of Sprite.
Now, just the right side of the plane, I said, gesturing with my cutter.
53 bottles of beer on the wall...
The irony that of the five of us, only one had ever even tasted a beer, was not lost on me.
42 bottles of beer on the wall, 42 bottles of beer...
I no longer noticed the smell of infidel feces, some of it induced by fear and some just because we wouldn’t let anyone use the restroom after that first incident. Wail had hurt his foot pretty bad kicking in the door. I told him to stop whining, that soon it wouldn’t matter, but he wouldn’t shut up. Don’t be such a pussy, I muttered.
31 bottles of beer on the wall, 21 bottles of beer...
Faster now, come on people, we haven’t got all day here! Now, just the ladies:
If one of those bottles should happen to fall, 23 bottles of...
Wow, look at how close the buildings are! I have to admit, I’m a little irritated, though. If we wouldn’t have wasted so much time arguing, we could have timed this better. As it is, we’re not going to make it all the way to zero bottles. It’s a minor glitch, I know, but I hate when things don’t go exactly according to plan.
Blue lights bounce off the shiny peaks of cop's caps
ReplyDeletea welcome home banner of foul language strung
between the streetlamps and red brick terraced houses,
and lest I forget this is reality, green bile
brews in my guts, spewed out by her poisoned liver.
Each missing tooth representing 1000 lies,
rotting bridgework can longer hide deceit
and the spar of bone that juts
from her blackout-broken clavicle
is no vestigial angel’s wing.
Propped against the doorframe
in a slipping, sickly lilac bathrobe
big, red-blooded men
pay as little attention to escaping breasts
as the stripped carcass of a Sunday chicken.
The loose puppy in the street is a more pressing concern;
if she’s not muzzled and leashed in accordance to the law
they will be forced to act upon such negligence, a fact the authorities never cared enough to address
when this bitch had kids.
I relish the moment of my enemies' death. I don't need a necrology, liturgy, meth. What passes away is once begotten. There is noth ing to fear from the forgotten. The fear of fear is all that remains, and the Virgin's reflection in the windowpane.
ReplyDeleteFreakin' Weather Part 1
ReplyDeleteI blame the whole mess on the freakin’ weather in Seattle. If it hadn’t rained in August, I would not have changed out my spring-summer embossed dotted ocelot op-art signature leather-lurex Coach hobo purse for my fall-winter Northface tear-drop heavy nylon sateen backpack.
How was I supposed to know freakin’ summer would come back?
It was, like, all over the media that El Niña was on its way, get ready people for an early and severe winter, blah blah blah. So when it started raining, I figured that was it. I haul around my whole life with me, so in the rain and snow season, I need a carry-all with those special airtight zippers and other waterproof features.
And I was angry that day about the rain because it would spoil Bobby D’s party later, so I, like, threw my emptied purse, and I guess it landed on top of the stuff my mother was putting together for the homeless. The schizo weather here fooled her too, into prematurely doing her seasonal cleaning thing.
Let’s not go into the scene at my house when the sun came out again and I couldn’t find my bag. Daddy said he took everything to the Methodist Church Friday clothing giveaway to the homeless. He tried to sneak in a lame history lesson as usual Something about the justice of a hobo bag returning to the hobos. I didn’t know what he was talking about, hopping trains, the Depression. Supes!
It was Saturday and I had to wait another week. I tried going Sunday but the minister wouldn’t open the basement area where the clothing was. He was, like, right there! Bitch wasn’t being very Christian, in my opinion.
On Friday, I tore through a shelf of the ugliest, cheapest purses I’d ever seen in my life, like vinyl even, but mine wasn’t there.
“Oh that nice big leather bag with the tassles?” the stupid volunteer asked. “One of the Tent City women took it.”
Tent City? DUDE! They were using my purse for tent parts?
She vaguely remembered a big, elderly black woman with two gold front teeth admiring my purse and taking it to her grocery cart. Helpful.
Freakin Weather Part 2
ReplyDeleteAt Tent City, I was shocked to see the tents gone. Somebody sweeping the lot informed me it had to move early to its winter quarters due to the rain last week.
“El Niña’s coming,” he explained.
He did remember the big black woman and her teeth though. So I went downtown looking for “Mabel,” he called her. I’d kill myself with a name like that.
I thought of going to the police but figured they might confiscate my purse as evidence in the theft, so I took Haley with me to help.
“Ooh, we’re, like, playing detective?” she squealed. I reminded her this was serious business, that my purse was at stake.
We found Mabel in less than hour. Haley and I are smarter than, like FBI agents. The Tent City manager told me she usually parked her cart at 3rd and Pike.
I spotted her on the way, struggling to roll the cart uphill. I knew it was her when the sun reflected off her teeth. And I’m sorry, I know isn’t PC, but I remember thinking she’s a retard who should not be out on the streets. I mean, she chose to take the hilly way to her destination when one block over was practically flat. And who hauls around a life in a grocery cart, anyways.
As I approached, I saw my purse right on top of her pile of junk. My heart ached, thinking what it must have suffered a whole week in that woman’s company.
In less than a minute, I had caught up to her and scooped the purse. I threw a ten dollar bill her direction “for your trouble.” Instead of going for the money, another sign of being mental: she grabbed the purse and started a really lame tug of war with me.
She was amazingly strong. I thought the homeless were supposed to be, like, weak from starving. Well, nobody told Mabel that.
I was so intent on not only regaining possession of my purse but making sure there would be no damage, that I didn’t realize Haley was screaming at all, much less screaming “Stop Thief!” and “She’s killing her!” I didn’t see the police either because when they arrived, I was on the ground with Mabel above, hitting me with the purse. The blood they saw wasn’t from anything she did to me, it was the re-opening of a fingernail cut on my forehead during a Zoomba work-out at the Pro-Club the day before, but the police didn’t know that. It was an honest mistake on their part. I testified to that.
Haley said they were yelling at Mabel to drop her weapon (my purse!) but she just kept on hitting me. It hurt, sure, but only on my arm as I covered my face. Just some bruises. I don’t approve that they shot her, and all that. We found out later she was born without hearing, and I guess the good thing about her being dead now is that she doesn’t have to be deaf anymore. I would kill myself if I couldn’t hear music.
I’ll say this for Mabel. She must have recognized the quality of my purse, because she hadn’t harmed it any. Haley thinks it smells of gunpowder, but when the police finally returned it to me, I thought it was perfect.
September and October were mostly clear, so I got a lot of use out of it too, before changing it out with my backpack.
I still hate the freakin weather here.
Freakin' Weather Part 2
ReplyDeleteAt Tent City, I was shocked to see the tents were gone. Somebody sweeping the lot informed me it had to move early to its winter quarters due to the rain last week.
“El Niña’s coming,” he explained.
He did remember the big black woman and her teeth though. So I went downtown looking for “Mabel,” he called her. I’d kill myself with a name like that.
I thought of going to the police but figured they might confiscate my purse as evidence, so I took Haley with me to help.
“Ooh, we’re, like, playing detective?” she squealed. I reminded her this was serious business, that my purse was at stake.
We found Mabel in less than hour. Haley and I are smarter than, like FBI agents. The Tent City manager told me she usually parked her cart at 3rd and Pike.
I spotted her on the way, struggling to roll the cart uphill. I knew it was her when the sun reflected off her teeth. And I’m sorry, I know isn’t PC, but I remember thinking she’s a retard who should not be out on the streets. I mean, she chose to take the hilly way to her destination when one block over was practically flat. And who hauls around a life in a grocery cart, anyways.
As I approached, I saw my purse right on top of her pile of junk. My heart ached, thinking what it must have suffered a whole week in that woman’s company.
In less than a minute, I had caught up to her and scooped the purse. I threw a ten dollar bill her direction “for your trouble.” Instead of going for the money, another sign of being mental: she grabbed the purse and started a really lame tug of war with me.
She was amazingly strong. I thought the homeless were supposed to be, like, weak from starving. Well, nobody told Mabel that.
I was so intent on not only regaining possession of my purse but making sure there would be no damage, that I didn’t realize Haley was screaming at all, much less screaming “Stop Thief!” and “She’s killing her!” I didn’t see the police either because when they arrived, I was on the ground with Mabel above, hitting me with the purse. The blood they saw wasn’t from anything she did to me, it was the re-opening of a fingernail cut on my forehead during a Zoomba work-out at the Pro-Club the day before, but the police didn’t know that. It was an honest mistake on their part. I testified to that.
Haley said they were yelling at Mabel to drop her weapon (my purse!) but she just kept on hitting me. It hurt, sure, but only on my arm as I covered my face. Just some bruises. I don’t approve that they shot her, even if it was just a stun gun. She died from a heart attack, thinking it was real. We found out later she was born without hearing, and I guess the good thing about her being dead now is that she doesn’t have to be deaf anymore. I mean, like, I would kill myself if I couldn’t hear music.
I’ll say this for Mabel. She must have recognized the quality of my purse, because she hadn’t harmed it any. Haley thinks it smells of gunpowder, but when the police finally returned it to me, I thought it was perfect.
September and October were mostly clear, so I got a lot of use out of it too, before changing it out with my backpack.
I still hate the freakin weather here.
Freakin' Part 2
ReplyDeleteAt Tent City, I was shocked to see the tents were gone. Somebody sweeping the lot informed me it had to move early to its winter quarters due to the rain last week.
“El Niña’s coming,” he explained.
He did remember the big black woman and her teeth though. So I went downtown looking for “Mabel,” he called her. I’d kill myself with a name like that.
I thought of going to the police but figured they might confiscate my purse as evidence, so I took Haley with me to help.
“Ooh, we’re, like, playing detective?” she squealed. I reminded her this was serious business, that my purse was at stake.
We found Mabel in less than hour. Haley and I are smarter than, like FBI agents. The Tent City manager told me she usually parks herself and her cart at 3rd and Pike.
I spotted her on the way, struggling to roll the cart uphill. I knew it was her when the sun reflected off her teeth. And I’m sorry, I know isn’t PC, but I remember thinking she’s a retard who should not be out on the streets. I mean, she chose to take the hilly way to her destination when one block over was practically flat. And who hauls around a life on a daily basis anyways.
As I approached, I saw my purse on top of her pile of junk. My heart ached, thinking what it must have suffered a whole week in that woman’s company.
Freakin' Part 3 and The End
ReplyDeleteI could see the tassles swaying violently when the street turned downhill, as if desperate to get my attention!
In a couple of minutes I reached her and scooped up the purse. A quick glance revealed it was empty. I threw a ten dollar bill her direction “for your trouble.” Instead of going for the money like any normal homeless person, she showed yet another sign of being mental: she grabbed the purse. Suddenly we were in this really lame, embarrassing tug of war!
She was amazingly strong. I thought the homeless were supposed to be, like, weak from starving. Well, nobody told Mabel that.
I was so intent on not only regaining possession of my purse but making sure there would be no damage, that I didn’t realize Haley was screaming at all, much less screaming “Stop Thief!” and “She’s killing her!” I didn’t see the police either because when they arrived, I was on the ground with Mabel above, hitting me with the purse. The blood they saw wasn’t from anything she did to me, it was the re-opening of a fingernail cut on my forehead during a Zoomba work-out at the Pro-Club the day before, but the police didn’t know that. It was an honest mistake on their part. I testified to that.
Haley said they were yelling at Mabel to drop her weapon (my purse!) but she just kept on hitting me. It hurt, sure, but only on my arm as I covered my face. Just some bruises. I don’t approve that they shot her, even if it was just a stun gun. She died from a heart attack, thinking it was real. We found out later she was born without hearing, and I guess the good thing about her being dead now is that she doesn’t have to be deaf anymore. I would kill myself if I couldn’t hear music.
I’ll say this for Mabel. She must have recognized the quality of my purse, because she hadn’t harmed it any. Haley thinks it smells of B.O and tomato sauce but when the police finally returned it to me, I thought it was perfect. I sprayed it with DK perfume just to be safe.
September and October were mostly clear, so I got a lot of use out of it too, before changing it out with my backpack.
I still hate the freakin' weather here.
State of the Union [CombatWords, October 30, 2010]
ReplyDeleteOnce upon a time, criminals controlled America. And America? She was dying. And instead of renewing herself with a culture of life, she became increasingly obsessed with the culture of death. The death of honest work. The death of the American Dream... death of the Constitution—death of the very way of life and culture that had once made America so great. Life was expendable in those dark times and theft was the rule, not the exception. Honest people lived in terror, while murders, thieves, propagandists and rapists dominated the courts, streets, media and even the presidency.
America was tired. It was tired and it had gotten lazy. The culture of death made criminals into heroes and honest, hard working citizens seem like fools. Young people learned to idolize the worst elements society had to offer. And then, on September Eleventh, two thousand and one, everything changed. Three million Americans perished in a single cloud of flame, when terrorists did the unthinkable and detonated a nuclear bomb in New York City.
But New York City survived. America rebuilt an exact replica her crown jewel. As a symbol to ensure Americans never forgot that tragic day, the World Trade Towers were not rebuilt. A permanent scar from a wound that will never close. And the pain from that scar reminded America that it was still alive! Real Americans took their country back.
Not surprisingly, the culture of death perished and a culture of life was revitalized. And now, America is optimistic again, working under a common vision. We took socialists at their word and put them to work in our factories, farms, and brothels for service men. Terrorist races were executed under the tragic, but necessary suspension of habeas corpus. America destroyed her enemies before her enemies destroyed her, from the inside out.
Although much of the world still rallies against humanity's last, greatest hope, America has outlasted many terrorist civilizations and terrorist ideologies. And we're not alone in our quest to defend freedom. Our friends are stronger than ever; London, Greater Israel, and Australia have joined the coalition of the willing. We have liberated Canada, the former Latin American nations, and Europa—including The Fatherland—and laid ruin to Peking Man and the Mohammadan hordes. Americans live longer than ever and that's no surprise since we're the world's biggest importer of human organs. And we work harder than ever. What's in the secret sauce Uncle Sam? It's freedom my friends, freedom.
Couplets for Christ
ReplyDelete(Vatican City Blues)
This is my god and I carry him round
I keep him boxed so he's easily found
Given to me when I was a young fool
Learned about boxes in parochial school
All life's questions are all answered for me
in a book the box factory gives away free
I go through life with their words on my lips
My mind is in neutral so my tongue often slips
Many a man will let his god run around
I know this behavior is truly not sound
My god kicks and screams and tries to get out
but he's safer in there I have little doubt
I'd let him out but I'm afraid I'd abhor
life with a god that's not in cardboard
Toady: Funny +1, Liked it +1 = +2
ReplyDeleteNay: Liked it +1, Clever language & good use of theme +1 = +2
Jay: Seems a bit unfocused. Promising, but goes nowhere. = 0
Sandra: Hilarious +1, Liked it +1, Especially effective riff on theme +1 = +3
SMG: Tsk, I wanna score ye, but you're late man, late!
TOADY: Very funny + 1
ReplyDeleteManaged to make a REAL character within the farce genre instead of the more typical stereotype; the protag felt like his own unique person; +1
I liked it +1,
Fit the theme perfectly +1
TOTAL: +4
NAY:
Relentless powerful images +1
I didn't like it, nobody came through as real to me, it was too removed from the events and people depicted (although maybe that was intentionsl, to view through a filter. Even so, I didn't like -1
Did not have enough farce to balance out the tragic, thus did not achieve theme. -1
TOTAL: -1
Miscel Comment: It reminded me the way private dramas became public scenes in Crime and Punishment, the major difference being the masterful way the farce and the poignancy alternate at lightning speed. Readers are laughing in a horrified way, the same time as they ache for a character.
KW:
Too abstract, too generalized. -1
I did not like it. -1
This reader didn't think the theme was brought out -1
Miscel: Maybe it's supposed to be the beginning of an Armagadon story, so even if it's kind of dull, I'd give it a whirl. You're rarely guilty of bad writing anyway; always liable to fin something interesting along the way +1
TOTAL: -2
Jay:
I didn't like it because short as it is, I didn't follow it -1
I can't perceive the theme in it
Total: -2
I know I missed the deadline for giving points in critique, but I thought I'd throw in a few comments anyways.
ReplyDeleteMy favorite piece this week was by Nay. I thought the language was effectively raw, you painted a compellingly ugly picture of skewered priorities.
Sandra, your story was quite good as well, and I enjoyed the slapstick of the climax, but felt something was missing at the end, though I'm hard pressed to put my finger on exactly what it was. Sorry, I know that's vague. But I think you're close to having a really great piece here.
KW, this piece didn't work for me, though I'm intrigued by the idea of an exact replica of NYC being built after the attack. (Shades of Synecdoche, maybe?) I couldn't get a fix on the voice here, wasn't quite sure what you were going for.
SMG, this was pretty good but I'm kind of confused about what the box actually is, and that distracted me. Are you talking about a box that has a bible inside of it?
Jay, there's not really enough for me to comment on here. If this piece was longer, or had more of a concrete center I could grab onto, I could offer better criticism.
Again, sorry I didn't make the crit deadline. Too busy toilet-papering my ex-girlfriend's car.