Thursday, January 26, 2012
Wondering...
Which is louder: Amos' snoring that is currently blaring in my ears or the auditory result of my roiling innards that is currently filling up the rest of the room? Too bad I cannot upload an audio file for the popular vote to decide. I suppose the embarrassed part of me hopes that it is Amos. I suspect it is not.
I wonder just how many pages Faulkner could have filled up describing the cacophony emanating from my abdomen? There would certainly be no discussion of symphonic melodies....
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2 comments:
Bowelblast fetid and rancorous, even thunderous with its fuminous volcanic intensity, boiling forth to strike down the naively unsuspecting in a kind of relentless ash-ridden Pompeian doom. Stuff of marvels, stuff of legend, stuff of nightmarish tales told by firelight to the blackfaced children with eyes opened wide by fright and the imagined noxious stench that peels paint from mansion walls and the hide from whatever unknowing domestic creature should have the grave misfortune of wandering into such a noisome encounter with fumes of incendiary unabation. "You, Jester! You Landis!" Mammy called to the boys striking matches in the outhouse, intent on duplicating the conflagration of Dresden, Hiroshima, and Nagasaki, albeit on a slightly smaller acale, there behind the manor house. "You fools stop it afore I bust your heads! With her feeble heart Miz Compson liable to drop over dead if she catches wind uh dat stink! That there blast is sure enuff sound and fury, and what it signifies is somethin that stinks like an army of dead polecats dat done ate one too many Mexican dinners."
You have totally made my entire blooming YEAR! I bow to the magnificence of your pen, O Livermush Lush!!
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