the mysterious and ambiguously diabolical secret that the whole of 70's contemporary rock holds. It is a magical lock of Barry Gibbs' corn row-ed hair. It will guide you on your journey." Bo regarded this plot-defining revelation with a perfectly void stare; Brother Platinum suspected for a moment that the young monk may have suffered from acute leucotomy.
Brother Platinum's face developed a colour that could only be described as "aggravated burgundy;" his intricately styled afro diffracted the glow faintly. It was really quite a sight to behold. If this weren't enough, the Brother frowned to further corroborate his frustration for Bo's absentmindedness but quickly got his priorities in order.
"Bo, I must explain something very important to you. Under the intricately sequined and fabulously bedazzled cloak of the smooth 70's rock scene, there exists an endlessly convoluted web of lies, sex, guile, drugs, sleaze, and roll."
Bo considered this for a long while. His mind wandered briefly to a grade school sweetheart, and he considered whether she may still be single, but quickly resumed his quiet contemplation that the implications of the Brother's heed held. Bo carefully crafted his response, and began slowly, "Jiminy Cricket! That sounds dangerously scandalous...but where is the rock?" A smug look flickered across his face as he considered what a blazing success his exclamations have been so far.
Consecutively, a refreshing wave of approval washed over Platinum's weathered, yet brilliantly maintained face. "Yes, my dear boy," he warmly reassured, "that is precisely the dilemma. We monks, for countless generations, have secretly tended to the sanctity of rock and roll." The Brother had obviously broken through, because the gaze afforded by Bo's pure captivation from this tale breathed what could be mistaken for a look of sentience in his eyes, a rare occasion to be sure. "Now, we monks truly believe you are the chosen one to follow the valiant path of saving rock and roll." Bo sighed heavily. "Young Bo, your journey must start immediately. It will be dangerous to go alone, take this," and reached for a tattered axe fashioned with a sound-hole and a set of grimy-looking guitar strings. "It's an axe². Your destiny rests at the end of a long and arduous paths of arbitrary evil. You must first head East towards
21 comments:
Folks, I think I just made this story take a turn for the absurd.
You went all cornrow of destiny on us.
I always knew Barry Gibb's hair was magical.
Someone really ought to edit this idiot's gibberish.
That's so third person of you.
Quit judging me, Nico.
Remarking, not judging. If you'd like to be judged, I can pencil you in for tomorrow. ~licks pencil lead, makes face~
Do you lick a lot of lead? This may offer some insight about you.
~glare~
Ohhh, I'm getting all tingly.
I'm using the wrong glare, then.
It should be tickly, with a side of burn.
The wrong glare?
Are you?
Am I ...? A man? No. Although I did just read what I wrote, and I suppose it does that way.
*sound.
Using the wrong glare. I asked if you were using the wrong glare. I'm questioning your motives.
I'm a glare bear on the fritz. I'm having a weird day. Clearly.
Every day is weird for me.
Also, I might die tomorrow. If you haven't heard back from me in 24 hours, call the internet authorities and consider me dead.
NO DYING!
(Are you doing something stupid, requiring a helmet?)
Nothing requiring a helmet is ever stupid.
I just started a new, second job and the days are very long and the work is mind-numbingly repetitive. Also, the shift starts at 4:30 in the am.
Kill me. No, wait, my job will do that for me.
Bummer!
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