- Absalom, Absalom! I Mean, Nipple!
All the King’s Nipples
A Handful of Nipples
An American Nipple
Are You There Nipple? It’s Me, Margaret
The Nipples Karamazov
A Clockwork Nipple
The Cunning Nipple
Don Quixote de La Pezón (Spanish)
The French Lieutenant’s Nipple
Gone With the Nipple
The Nipples of Wrath
The Great Nipple
The Nipple is A Lonely Hunter
The Lion, The Nipple and the Wardrobe
Lord of the Nipple (William Golding)
The Lord of the Nipples (J.R.R. Tolkien)
The Old Wives’ Nipple
One Flew Over the Nipple’s Nest
The Nipple of Miss Jean Brodie
Tender is the Nipple
The Nipple Who Came in From the Cold
Their Eyes Were Watching Nipples
To Kill a Nipple
Wide Sargasso Nipple
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Monday, March 26, 2007
So. That experiment? I'm just curious if anyone actually downloaded it. Please comment yes or no. This was just an exercise in curiosity, so don't think I'll get mad. I just want to know how likely people are to participate in something like this.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Edgy: I was cleaning off the table because I arrived to an empty house (meaning that even editorgirl wasn't here) at 6:20 when I was under the impression that we were to be arriving at 6:00. I must confess that it's an odd feeling to be the first to show up at a party when one is not hosting said party. Regardless, the party got off to a lovely start with said shrimp dip and said rolls and bags and bags of chips and bottles and bottles of soda provided for by editorgirl. Finally, Master Fob and FoxyJ and S-Boogie and Lil Dude showed up. With the Costco pizzas. Yum.
Master Fob: Yum indeed. I feel that we should have killed someone, as we usually do in these group posts, but I'm not sure who we killed. Perhaps Tolkien Boy will fill us in there. He did just say something about killing the dog...
Tolkien Boy: When I was invited to this little soiree, I automatically assumed it was because I have more estrogen than editorgirl and Absent-Minded combined. Well, maybe not combined. This, however, was not borne out by facts, as I came bearing--well, nothing, except for my own sense of obligation. It's a strong sense of obligation, which is what kept me up late at night, and early morning, and--okay, so I didn't sleep last night, but not for any good reasons, as the gosspists of FOB and others will suggest to you. Ambrosia, who is lovely as a redhead, now will speak.
Ambrosia: When Bawb and I slunk in late, the house was packed. We slipped into the kitchen, ashamed of our tardiness and hoping that the fruit pizzas would buy us some forgiveness. Shrimp dip, looking inviting, was on the table. Pizza, equally tempting, on the counter. And tucked neatly beside the fridge was the body. Looked like someone had had a little too much Diet Coke. The pinstriped shirt had a red splotch. Probably just ketchup. I moved back to the table and started loading my plate.
Dec: These people are so weird.
eleka: Having friends in high places finally served me well, as I was given invite to tonight's exclusive FOB party. After spending the requisite 2.5 hours making myself pretty (that being the only way I could imagine holding my own - or, at least, distracting them from my lack of English major rhetoric - with the highly erudite sort sure to be in attendance therein) I sashayed my way into editorgirl's house and found it full of fine individuals whom I hadn't seen in far too long. The scent of Saule's homebaking rolls was a fragrancial delight and the table of waiting delectable-looking goodies that we were ever-more failing to abstain from eating kept reminding us that Tolkien Boy was still MIA. After a quick discussion as to whether or not Tolkien Boy is yet adept enough at using his rather new cell phone to understand how to receive text messages, Edgy took a change and sent TB a rather vehement "Where the hell are you?" inquiry. It worked - soon thereafter, TB sashayed himself in to the party - bedecked in Banana Republic, fantastic jeans, and a most amazing accessory: the man bag. He looked devastatingly hot. In a more idealistic alternative universe, I would have been his. Or, rather, he would have been mine.
Bawb: The food was delicious. I do not believe in fiction.
[cue reality TV result show music of your choice]
editorgirl: Fobs, America has voted. Who will be survive the Return to Happy Valley? Master Fob, you provided Costco pizza and performed a tap routine from "Fob: The Musical." Bawb liked the pizza, but thought the tap routine lacked technique. Edgy Killer Bunny couldn't stop laughing long enough to say anything. America has voted--Master Fob, for today, you are safe.
Tolkien Boy, you beat everyone in two rounds of anagrams. I thought you were patronizing. And you were. Eleka commented that you were very well dressed. America voted--and we'll find out what they have to say after the break.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Theric: Huh? Did I hear something? From over here in the great beyond where I was so recently and unfairly sent?
Master Fob: If I'm channeling the dead you then shouldn't we be logged in under my name?
Th: Hey.... That's right.... I can't believe you killed me for my Blogger account. Haven't you heard these things are free?
MF: Yes, but wouldn't you kill to be able to post on Thmazing's Thmusings?
Th: I see your point. SO what--did you just dredge me up from Eternal Rest to gloat?
MF: Yes. And I'm done now.
Th: Oh. Well. Um. Enjoy your drive?
MF: Thank you. Hey, did it occur to you that I can make you say whatever I want just by typing my own words after Th:?
Th: Wow, you're a genius! No wonder I've always secretly wished I were you.
MF: Yes, well, most people do.
Th: Help! Help! I'm possessed by a corporeal being!!!!!
MF: I have nothing to say to that.
Th: You wouldn't. I know your kind. Peter was telling me all about your ilk. Nefertiti too. She's nice. She gave me this nice little welcome basket. They have great fruit here.
MF: Well, that's a relief. I was worried there wouldn't be any fruits in heaven.
Th: I don't get it.
Th: Can I go back now?
Th: Master Fob?
Th: This is ridiculous. I liked things so much better when you were dead!
MF: Well, if that's how you feel then I'll just go now. See you later.
Th: Wait! No! You don't know what it's like here! I have no internet access! I was only kidding, Ben--only kidding! Don't go! Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Friday, March 16, 2007
Thursday, March 15, 2007
This post is an experiment. Might work, might not. Don't know. And this story is both a good one and a bad one to test on. Bad because it's kind of long. Good because its name is "Perky Erect Nipples."
I am not proud to have written a story called "Perky Erect Nipples." I'm still not quite sure how it happened. The title and first paragraph just came to me one morning and I thought they were funny so I wrote them down. I figured the story would max out at about 1000 words (maybe 4000) and would be a chuckly little thing to stick in the corner of some collection in about twenty years. But then it just kept growing and growing and growing and growing. Then I mentioned to Tolkers that I was working on it and he wanted to read it so I had to finish it and rewrite it so he could. Then he gave me good advice and so I've been rewriting and rewriting again and now I've spent uncountable hours on something I would not even have said aloud twelve years ago.
"Perky Erect Nipples," indeed!
Anyway, I wrote it and I would like feedback and that's where the experiment comes in. I'm going to link to a temporary copy of the .doc of "PENny" and any reader of the Foblog--Fob or not, Ottarian or not--may download it and then come here to the comments section (or email me using the email address listed on Thmusings) and give me the brutal truth.
(Example: "Writing a story with such a title is evil and I hate you!")
(The more brutal the more better.)
Before we go on, here's the first page, so you can decide whether you even dare take the first steps in participation:
- I should clear up right from the get-go—so no one gets the wrong idea coming into this—that Perky Erect Nipples is the name of my cat. My brother was staying with me for a couple weeks when I bought myself a fluffy, gray kitten and he was the one who suggested the name (Penny) that I eventually went with. Then, when he was passing through town six months later, he told me that the Pen in Penny stood for Perky Erect Nipples. He laughed and laughed and laughed and I punched him in the mouth.
My brother and I have kind of an antagonistic relationship and I don’t know why. It didn’t start till we were both adults. In fact, in high school it was him—the younger Lynch—who was considered “the mature one.” But now he’s got this juvenile sense of humor and moves around the country staying with old friends and new girls and generally making a fool of himself. But he is my brother.
Sometimes I catch myself calling Penny Perky so I guess the meaning of the P-E-N has sunk in. It doesn’t matter so much here, in Indiana, but I could never have a cat named Perky or Penny back home in Oregon.
It’s coming up on my fifteenth high school reunion. I probably won’t go, even though I’d like to this time. Because if I did, I might meet this girl I once knew. Penny.
My brother didn’t know Penny, I don’t think, so I’m pretty sure he wasn’t thinking of her when he suggested the name—but I was definitely thinking of her when I punched him in the mouth.
Isaac is not being entirely correct in claiming that the title could only possibly refer to his cat.
He is, in fact, quite wrong.
So to further guide anyone considering the morality of helping Theric out, behold!
Theric's Concordance/Checksheet of Dirty Words
to Be Found in "Perky Erect Nipples"
for the Warning of Potential Readers
and the Attraction of Casual Googlers
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
the analyists should snoopiter,
they'll claim as super-dupiter
our clever friend Sir Jupiter.
To beaurocratic hoopiter
we know he'll never stoopiter:
no, he is no cyborg bloopiter
no, not our friend Sir Jupiter.
He's kind as Betty Boopiter!
If you should catch the croupiter,
he'd make you chicken soupiter--
that's how he is, Sir Jupiter.
Whenever Fob souls droopiter,
his cheer he does not coopiter,
(nor yet his jokes on poopiter)
our cheery friend Sir Jupiter.
He keeps us in the loopiter,
his caring is no dupiter,
yes, say it with a whoopiter--
we praise our friend Sir Jupiter!
Thursday, March 8, 2007
While in these strange existences, when troubled lives we lead,
despairing of our happiness, a cheerful soul we need—
a friendly, warm, and loving look, an optimistic creed,
we need an anti-pessimist! We need, in short, the Weed!
When all our little fantasies, like Catherine’s, start to bleed,
he offers to us soothing balms, if we his words will heed.
‘Tis wisdom to his kindly wit our attitudes to cede;
‘tis wisdom, too, to hail his name! All praise the clever Weed!
He is our fellow-traveller! And, like a mighty steed,
he bears us from low-lying lands where cares and troubles breed.
And like the ancient sower, in us he plants his seed
of mustard (genus:
Without his careful minist’ring, we’d be left in our greed,
like fishes in a barrel or cats by grim dogs treed.
And so we raise a toast to you, of non-fermented mead,
for all you do and all you are. All hail the mighty Weed!
Monday, March 5, 2007
Thursday, March 1, 2007
And I've been told that I need to provide a brief introduction of myself because there is many a Fob who doesn't know me. I teach English and history to seventh graders, and I'm here in Seattle studying to be a therapist. I go into shock at anything having to do with collision with bodies. I have a scar on my chin that I got when I fell in the bathtub as a one-year-old. My left eye is uncorrectably legally blind. And, done.
Hi! My name is Tolkien Boy. I live in a constant state of paranoia about my many obligations. For example, I often am given the obligation to record the minutes of FOB. FOB minutes, while being fun to record, are often so difficult in their scope and emotional content that it gives me ulcer pains when I think of the great responsibility laid upon me.
Speaking of "laid," Master Fob indicates that his next work will be a tour de force which exposes the worlds of superheroEs and religious zealots alike in a stunning work reminiscent of Dan Brown in his least egregious moments. He rose to brilliant heights of narrative excellence, including the unprecedented dialogue snippet: "..." Tolkien Boy was greatly impressed, as well, by his appropriation of a certain soon-to-be-divorced celebrity (Thom Cruz) into his cult, which apparently includes both gerontophilism (the love of old people) and cluckbuckcluckism (the unusual treatment of chickens, viz a viz sacrifice). Weed (aforementioned) proposed a reenactment of said rites: the motion was voted down two to three (Tolkien Boy pulled in his imaginary friends Juan and Cindy to help close the deal).
Hi, I'm Master Fob. You may remember me from such Foblog posts as "Fob June 18th" and "The Twelve Fobs of Christmas." Neither of those told you about Tolkien Boy's latest masterpiece, though, which is a gripping tale of babies left on doorsteps and Mormons with unending supplies of diapers and in which it is okay, after all, to speak of liking Karen Carpenter, but only if it is an innocent child that does so.
Nor do those posts, fabulous as they are, detail the latest installment of Weed's epic fantasy about paper-eaters, Harper Collins, and his cousin Harper Lee. But surely they are, at least the one that is Fob minutes, as obscure to anyone who wasn't actually there as this one is.
And, just so you know, I have a scar on my forehead and a birthmark on my butt that is not as aesthetically pleasing as the one on my thigh. And now I will let Weed tell you all about Sir Jupiter's contribution to Fob tonight.
In closing, Sir Jupiter is dead to us. Until he comes back. And then he'll, perhaps, favor us with a selection. But until that time, we mourn. Deeply. Because of the death. And because Tolkien Boy just talked about getting naked and smearing himself in paste.
P.S. (from Tolkien Boy) What does P.S. mean?