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montsnmags · 01-01-2009, 10:45 PM

"If a dugong should be presented in a story turning a mid-80's Porsche 911 off Eenie Creek Road onto Walter Hay Drive, rounding the roundabouts and the confused tourists in the outside lane with traditional back-heavy oversteer and pretending the bridge over the creek was a mag-lev rocket launcher that has a field activated by depressing the vehicles' right-hand floor pedal hard-and-fast to the floor like stamping out a burning spider threatening to run up a trouser leg (a trouser leg which, of course, a dugong technically does not have, and that therefore makes the analogy somewhat confused but is used to gain some empathy from the reader); and if this dugong should be accompanied in the back "seats" ("seats" for want of a better word to describe the leather-clad egg-cup redundancies with which such a car is gifted ) by a bettong with a nervous tic that requires a whole separate chapter just to describe the unexpected beauty of her cascading myoclonic choreography, and by an invisible gibbon looking at copping a sea-lice-flecked flipper across the back of the head if he doesn't keep inadvertently sticking one of his toes into the dugong's left ear while trying to discover if its possible to do the Nutbush to the beat of Popcorn (not the original; the punk rock cover); and should the discussion currently taking place between all four parties (since it has just been noted that a Rhinoceros Beetle - actually, only the head and three legs - is attached firmly to the top of the steering wheel and looking forward with a look that would be rapturous if he wasn't distracted by the talking behind and if anyone knew exactly what rapture looked like on a Rhinoceros Beetle) be overheard to be something to do with shaking the damned flying squirrel off the bonnet and what speed was necessary to outrun the expanding shock-wave of rainbow-coloured ur-reality that flowed from the river as Wonambi returned and slithered a comparable bulk into its mouth on the incoming tide, only for them all to realise that the wave-speed was as relative as any light and no matter how Ruf-and-ready this delight of German automotive engineering was it was not faster than random fate; and if at such realisation each of the five animist entities winked out of existence in a twinkle of ochre and, in the case of the dugong, a somewhat pleasant salty brume; and if this thus left a rather hefty lump of inertia to slow only marginally from its earlier occupied 176km/h to 140km/h when it drifted across the centre lines and buried itself deep within the engine bay of an oncoming Toyota Kluger and displace large chunks of metal and combustion from the engineered expectations of the manufacturer and lead to a WHUMP! of ignition and a difficulty identifying the Kluger's family of five who had travelled 17 hours all the way from Lower Farking and were otherwise only minutes from commencement of their annual holiday; and if this should be witnessed by a man of indigenous appearance (who, unfortunately for the storyteller who would be subjected to subsequent accusations of stereotyping, is wearing only a loincloth and standing on one leg while leaning heavily on a spear, but with a set of white wires curling up from his waist and splitting into both ears and if you were close enough you would see his hand tapping to the drum-heavy beat of a Midnight Oil song though you wouldn't know it was Power and the Passion because you can only hear that irritating MP3-player whisper, like a sand-fly death-metal band practising over the back fence, only just barely loud enough to be an irritant but not loud enough to be comprehended) who, without surprise or emotive reaction, turned from the page's events to look directly at the storyteller and reader and say the words, "Yes, well, it's all a rich tapestry"; then, if all the above is so presented - from visible invisibility, to conversant and automotively-skilled animals both dead and undead, to strange disappearances and technicolour explosions, to hints of apocalyptic events forthcoming from extinct megafauna, to likely explanations eventually being received from the mouths and actions of apparently animist entities - then it is with both a sense of wonder and a complete lack of surprise that, inevitably, in the face of a wealth of these humble offerings to the impossible, we will see someone up the back raise their hand and point out that "a mid-80's Porsche 911 could never hold a dugong, no matter how far you pushed the seat back"."

01-01-2009, 10:45 PM	#47
montsnmags Grand Sorcerer Posts: 10,155 Karma: 4632658 Join Date: Nov 2007 Device: none	"If a dugong should be presented in a story turning a mid-80's Porsche 911 off Eenie Creek Road onto Walter Hay Drive, rounding the roundabouts and the confused tourists in the outside lane with traditional back-heavy oversteer and pretending the bridge over the creek was a mag-lev rocket launcher that has a field activated by depressing the vehicles' right-hand floor pedal hard-and-fast to the floor like stamping out a burning spider threatening to run up a trouser leg (a trouser leg which, of course, a dugong technically does not have, and that therefore makes the analogy somewhat confused but is used to gain some empathy from the reader); and if this dugong should be accompanied in the back "seats" ("seats" for want of a better word to describe the leather-clad egg-cup redundancies with which such a car is gifted ) by a bettong with a nervous tic that requires a whole separate chapter just to describe the unexpected beauty of her cascading myoclonic choreography, and by an invisible gibbon looking at copping a sea-lice-flecked flipper across the back of the head if he doesn't keep inadvertently sticking one of his toes into the dugong's left ear while trying to discover if its possible to do the Nutbush to the beat of Popcorn (not the original; the punk rock cover); and should the discussion currently taking place between all four parties (since it has just been noted that a Rhinoceros Beetle - actually, only the head and three legs - is attached firmly to the top of the steering wheel and looking forward with a look that would be rapturous if he wasn't distracted by the talking behind and if anyone knew exactly what rapture looked like on a Rhinoceros Beetle) be overheard to be something to do with shaking the damned flying squirrel off the bonnet and what speed was necessary to outrun the expanding shock-wave of rainbow-coloured ur-reality that flowed from the river as Wonambi returned and slithered a comparable bulk into its mouth on the incoming tide, only for them all to realise that the wave-speed was as relative as any light and no matter how Ruf-and-ready this delight of German automotive engineering was it was not faster than random fate; and if at such realisation each of the five animist entities winked out of existence in a twinkle of ochre and, in the case of the dugong, a somewhat pleasant salty brume; and if this thus left a rather hefty lump of inertia to slow only marginally from its earlier occupied 176km/h to 140km/h when it drifted across the centre lines and buried itself deep within the engine bay of an oncoming Toyota Kluger and displace large chunks of metal and combustion from the engineered expectations of the manufacturer and lead to a WHUMP! of ignition and a difficulty identifying the Kluger's family of five who had travelled 17 hours all the way from Lower Farking and were otherwise only minutes from commencement of their annual holiday; and if this should be witnessed by a man of indigenous appearance (who, unfortunately for the storyteller who would be subjected to subsequent accusations of stereotyping, is wearing only a loincloth and standing on one leg while leaning heavily on a spear, but with a set of white wires curling up from his waist and splitting into both ears and if you were close enough you would see his hand tapping to the drum-heavy beat of a Midnight Oil song though you wouldn't know it was Power and the Passion because you can only hear that irritating MP3-player whisper, like a sand-fly death-metal band practising over the back fence, only just barely loud enough to be an irritant but not loud enough to be comprehended) who, without surprise or emotive reaction, turned from the page's events to look directly at the storyteller and reader and say the words, "Yes, well, it's all a rich tapestry"; then, if all the above is so presented - from visible invisibility, to conversant and automotively-skilled animals both dead and undead, to strange disappearances and technicolour explosions, to hints of apocalyptic events forthcoming from extinct megafauna, to likely explanations eventually being received from the mouths and actions of apparently animist entities - then it is with both a sense of wonder and a complete lack of surprise that, inevitably, in the face of a wealth of these humble offerings to the impossible, we will see someone up the back raise their hand and point out that "a mid-80's Porsche 911 could never hold a dugong, no matter how far you pushed the seat back"." Last edited by montsnmags; 01-12-2009 at 08:36 AM.