Stuart Gimble: March 2002 Archives

This week, fair reader, I shall attack an issue close to my heart. But in place of my normal rant, I will present to you a monologue similar in style to that which Camus employed in The Fall.

"I say, you there! Yes you, sir. Your dogged tennis shoes, frayed denim trousers, and mussed hair signal to me that you're but a step above homeless. Are you in need of financial assistance? A bite of food? Speak up, lad, I can't hear you. You write for Pork Pony? You're on your way to work? They don't fire you for wearing this to the office?

"Oh, child! How naive you are. Come, son, follow me and I shall impart you with a knowledge that will transform you from the boyish amateur scribe you are into a well-dressed, well-organized professional MAN of letters.

"Ah, the stench of processed meat. Don't slip on the vegetable oil Julio has spilt upon this red tile floor. Where are we? Oh, poor boy, we're in MacDonalds, the bastion of America's sickest eating habits, the trough from which all of these stinky farm animals our country calls citizens eat. Does it not disgust you? I certainly shall require a touch of the post-visit Pepto. Cover your nose and look around you, son. Although we are in one of the basest dens of swine around, there is something to be said for the restaurant's employees. They may be a bit dull - mentally, that is - but they possess a professional and clean appearance that elevates them above the common slobs who are their patrons.

"Fresh air. I can breath again. You want to know where I'm taking you next? It's just over here, across the street, next to that man with the shopping cart. Oh, he does smell acrid. Ack! Don't get too close! It's that money-grubbing, filthy creature Dave Barry. He was once a well-respected writer (a hack columnist, in my opinion),loved by many. But the way he dressed had much to be desired. Sloppy, unkempt, half-shaven. No one can take him seriously. You see him now, here, destitute. Here's a dollar, Barry. Goodwill has some decent suits and it's half-price day.

"Come inside, don't trip on those novels Barry's peddling. This, dear boy, is where a professional finds his attire - a quality men's clothing store. Look around at the suits. Blue and Black. A pinstripe here and there. Classy. Respected by one and all. I suggest you bring the staff of Pork Pony here. The lot of you could browse the store, be measured, and choose a common uniform. Think about it. Uniform. Unity. No more scraggly T-shirts and torn jeans. All will arrive at work sparkling like the morning dew on grass. Patrons and visitors will gasp in awe at the transformation. Who knows, maybe you'll even get some intelligent people to read your work.

"Go! Fly away, lad and speak the words of Stuart Gimble to your colleagues. Here's one of my cravats. Show them this and they'll buy into the idea for certain."

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I'm sure you'll all be sad to hear that your favorite writer (that is, of course, me) is a bit under-the-weather this week. That's right, your poor Stu has caught a wee bug, but fret not dear reader; it is not the typhoid nor is it the consumption. 'Tis but a touch of the flu.

What have I been doing while sick, you ask? Oh, I've been working on my latest novel, A Cat For All Places. My freshest story follows a young feline as he prances about the great cities of the world, encountering adventure, peril, and, of course, love. How does our fair cat travel about our planet? Why with his master! The owner in this tale is a stage performer, a graceful male dancer named Sven. Sven encounters difficulties as well, for the well-read Swede's show is based on the fable of the Phoenix, which forces our cat's master to wear a suit of feathers. The common men mock him calling him foul names and throwing things at him, but our little kitten, whom I've named Francis, comes to his defense.

When I mentioned this story to the staff of Pork Pony, most of them ignored it, writing it off as useless pretense. Mike Wargo, however, actually listened as I explained it to him. I was stunned for he started to give me intelligent feedback. Then, out of the blue, the twit burst into laughter and called me a "big, flaming poof." Needless to say, this only extended my illness and hampered my Stuance lessons (which, I believe, had been helping this vile web site's staff). Bah, I care not as long as they give me cash and freedom.

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Last Thursday, my employers here at Pork Pony told me something I hadn't realized until that day: Pork Pony's supposed to be funny. It is, as they call it, a warped humor magazine. Dear reader, I once left my favorite Mario Lanza record near the heater by accident and my error rendered that beautiful slab of sound warped. It would no longer play. Warped humor. Hmm...

After this revelation, I decided to look over the manuscripts of our web site's writers and add a little zing to them. I like to call my amendments "Stuance". Stuance transforms dull, colorless sentences that my primal cohorts pen into sparkling literary gems. Here are a few examples from Issue 11:

A.S. Albright writes the sentence:

"I would like to consider myself a reader."

Stuart Gimble adds a dash of Stuance:

"I, upon mulling over the many facets of my person, opine that if the choosing of a label for myself were fully up to me, the word 'Reader' would be tattooed boldly across my chest."

Do you notice the difference? Quite striking, is it not? Let us try another:

Eli Lindy writes:

"I forced a chuckle - an old trick of mine."

Stuance makes this boyish sentence a man:

"Through mine own lips I let out the falsest of chuckles, the mightiest of ironic guffaws. 'Twas a skill I'd honed through the years, using it repeatedly, aging it like a fine wine or cheese."

Has the art of Stuance sunken in? Let's try one more to make sure:

Mike Wargo writes:

"They will simply be a chance for us to have a little fun."

The Stuance striketh:

"These extraneous categories, seemingly naught but dalliance, shall become an opportunity for us to frolic in a sea of words, discussions, thoughts, and philosophies."

Stuance is the only way for Pork Pony. Forget this notion of warped humor. The literary high road is the only road worth driving on.

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Do you realize that on the road of life, Pork Pony is the smelly, slow, rust-riddled diesel-burning automobile that hogs the left lane? Why you spend your time reading this garbage is beyond me, but I'll give you credit reader, at least you're wasting your time on my words (which, by the way, are the equivalent of the 100 percent authentic ivory gear shift knob in the aforementioned filthy car) instead of the balance of the trash on this site.

This week, I received another letter, this one stating that I "could learn from" the staff of Pork Pony. At first I laughed, but then I realized that the reader who suggested this was right. I now cherish my every moment here, for every second I spend in the Pork Pony offices, I learn more about stupidity. I am convinced that when I finish my time here, I'll have earned a doctorate degree in the study of human idiocy. Here are some of my potential thesis topics:

Video Games and Fire: A Comparison

I am certain that by now you've seen or played some variety of video game. But have you ever thought, dear reader, of how closely our ancestors discovering fire resemble those playing these games? Think about the cooing. The grunts. The tossing of objects. The frustration. The look in the eyes of one who finally finds within himself the ability to defeat something so simple and subhuman. In actuality, I'd have to say that our ancient brothers and sisters have a leg up on these present day Playstation primates.

Rock and Roll: The IQ Decimator

Is repetition difficult? If so, my four-year-old great nephew must be an Einstein, because he can repeat nearly any phrase (not to mention the alphabet) for hours on end. How these dunces at Pork Pony can listen to Rock and Roll music is beyond me. Every song sounds the same. I've tried to introduce them to a little Caruso, but no use. The pea brains that occupy the space around me are too small to absorb the intricacies of a well-delivered aria. Let their brains rot, I care not.

I shall think of more thesis ideas to share with you reader, but for now, I must go. I am ill you see, but my illness cannot be attributed to a virus or bacteria. It's cause, however, can be described simply, with two words: Pork Pony.

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About this Archive

This page is an archive of recent entries written by Stuart Gimble in March 2002.

Stuart Gimble: February 2002 is the previous archive.

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