Incognito
You really don't remember our mission? Let me fill you in:
Picture it. Paris. 1941. The North had just invaded Atlanta, burning all crops within sight. General Washington was building a new American Empire by driving Attila the Hun to commit even more brutal actions than he would otherwise have taken. And there we were, atop the Himalayas. "Edmonde," says you, "when will the war end? When can we return to peacetime?" And I looked at you, and at the other children, and I said "the world we knew is gone. We must make Earth into whatever world we hope to live in." That's when the Abstractors initiated a memory pulse; I was the only one to survive with my brain patterns intact.
Why you called me "Edmonde" I'll never know. That wasn't even close to what my nickname actually was (the other children called me Scoots), but what really disturbed, what really perturbed, what really frosts my cake, is that you had the gall, the temerity, the outright fortitude to call me by the name of that venomous villain, that villainous venom-spewer, Edmonde. You think interstellar war is a game? That a slip of the tongue will -- what? -- break my silver concentration?!
I've never been broken -- not by King Kong nor Kublai Kahn, not by the C-SPAN personalities. Arlen Specter knows that I'm impervious to several strains of the truth serum firsthand, he was there the day the Abstractors invaded. He was among the cowardly "Save My Baby!" club that virtually ceded our homeworld to them bug-faced hugger-muggers in gray jump-suits, with their filthy reptilian predilictions. Sir! Senator Specter, I call upon you to renounce your ties to the vile invaders and their mothership! It is of national urgency! America can no longer withstand the continual exaltation to the aliens and their "special friend," George Bush. There's been a lot of talk about "sugary stars" and "intercontinental superluminary travel," but it's a crock pot of cuckoo clock theories. No hard evidence to back up their fireball tactics. They want our internal heat glands; that's all there is to it.
Senator, renounce the sugarship!
Picture it. Paris. 1941. The North had just invaded Atlanta, burning all crops within sight. General Washington was building a new American Empire by driving Attila the Hun to commit even more brutal actions than he would otherwise have taken. And there we were, atop the Himalayas. "Edmonde," says you, "when will the war end? When can we return to peacetime?" And I looked at you, and at the other children, and I said "the world we knew is gone. We must make Earth into whatever world we hope to live in." That's when the Abstractors initiated a memory pulse; I was the only one to survive with my brain patterns intact.
Why you called me "Edmonde" I'll never know. That wasn't even close to what my nickname actually was (the other children called me Scoots), but what really disturbed, what really perturbed, what really frosts my cake, is that you had the gall, the temerity, the outright fortitude to call me by the name of that venomous villain, that villainous venom-spewer, Edmonde. You think interstellar war is a game? That a slip of the tongue will -- what? -- break my silver concentration?!
I've never been broken -- not by King Kong nor Kublai Kahn, not by the C-SPAN personalities. Arlen Specter knows that I'm impervious to several strains of the truth serum firsthand, he was there the day the Abstractors invaded. He was among the cowardly "Save My Baby!" club that virtually ceded our homeworld to them bug-faced hugger-muggers in gray jump-suits, with their filthy reptilian predilictions. Sir! Senator Specter, I call upon you to renounce your ties to the vile invaders and their mothership! It is of national urgency! America can no longer withstand the continual exaltation to the aliens and their "special friend," George Bush. There's been a lot of talk about "sugary stars" and "intercontinental superluminary travel," but it's a crock pot of cuckoo clock theories. No hard evidence to back up their fireball tactics. They want our internal heat glands; that's all there is to it.
Senator, renounce the sugarship!
--The Taker of Gist | 10:46 PM
4 broke it down:
LOL. Best ever.
Gist this...
Y'all Chickenhawks to Me - by Elmo (MP3)
(If you have trouble with the link, right click and "save target as")
Uhhh...I'm lost---but that's not your fault---I've not been cruising around the blogosphere for quite some time now, and seem to have lost the gist of it all.
Can I be saved?
Is there a cure for the gistless?
A Gist to Arms.
Semper Fudge.
It's time for Gist to come out of hiding. He's got some work to do.
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