I was enthralled with the style of Jerome K. Jerome (Three Men in a Boat) and, yes, Grandpa Simpson.
It began as a contest on a Simpsons website, submitting funny captions to screens of characters and developed into long and winded rambles. Myself and two others have composed countless ones, with no plot and little sense.
Here is an excerpt I would like some comments on.
Upon a noon in mid October of 1922, Rufus, who I shall refer to as Jeffrey from now on – for reasons I cannot go into – had a fruitful trip in store for us. Us, a gentle, dare I say, crew of three lads... perhaps a flock; a modest flock of drunks with nothing to do, and not particularly gentle. Jeffrey wanted to go hunting. He preferred fancy hunting, while I held a fondness for regular hunting.
To settle the feud, I offered to play rock-paper-scissors. Jeffrey didn't like that idea, and punched me right in the nose. We then squared off to fight. I had a mean right hook, and got him right in the chin. Having a chin of steel, as folks did back then, he shook it off and kicked me in the groin. My groin could take quite the punishment though, and we continued to fight for another 15 minutes, quitting at the scheduled drinking time.
The rest of the hour or hours became a blur, and I woke up next to a sea otter that have found his way to he Nebraskan corn fields. Odd, indeed, but at our waking movements, he ran off, wearing the pants that were once upon my legs some hours prior. At that instant, we both agreed to hunt him down, but there arose the original argument.
I offered to play rock-paper-scissors again, and he accepted. I won, as I had the rock and he had the paper; back then, rock beat everything. We set off, only to get lost in downtown Lincoln. On my search, I stumbled upon a salesman that was lying in a ditch. He seemed like a man that could answer my questions. I asked him if he had seen an otter, wearing pants, beige pants. He pointed in a direction that no longer exists today. I gave him a fine tip, two woolen hats, as was the currency in those days.
After two hours of well-needed, pantless travel, I decided that I needed a faster way of getting around. As the invention of the bicycle had not reached the Nebraskan territory, I was forced to buy a unicycle. But my wallet was in my pants; Jeffrey was a poor man, an uncouth and poorly trimmed Newfoundlander. As far as bartering went, I got a unicycle (in dire need of repair) for a checkered shirt.
Ah, the checkered shirt; goose hats and checkered shirts quickly went in and out of style in 1919. I recall seeing a parade they held of the 55th day of January - in those days we only had two months, January and August - just because they felt like it, wearing just that. After the parade, I decided to treat myself to some bison. I streamed over to the local food-shack that carried everything; from food, to things consider illegal today. When the keep told me they didn't have bison, I rambled off in a language not known to man. Leaving disappointed I stopped at the tavern, where numerous drinks left in me a hazy stupor.
Six drinks... seven... eight. A boat for sale? Yes, a man was selling a speed boat. How much? He demanded a dime. All I had left, was a buffalo nickel from my shirt pocket. He agreed, but told me to dance. I danced a mighty fine jig, as was stylish back then.
I got the boat, and named it the Jackenhammerod. Later that evening, I realized, that in my drunken stupor I had in fact bought a mountain-goat. I returned to the bar with Jackenhammerod, and challenged the man to a new-fashioned bar fight, as we liked to do things back then. I won, keeping my new goat/boat and my buffalo nickel...
...
It began as a contest on a Simpsons website, submitting funny captions to screens of characters and developed into long and winded rambles. Myself and two others have composed countless ones, with no plot and little sense.
Here is an excerpt I would like some comments on.
Upon a noon in mid October of 1922, Rufus, who I shall refer to as Jeffrey from now on – for reasons I cannot go into – had a fruitful trip in store for us. Us, a gentle, dare I say, crew of three lads... perhaps a flock; a modest flock of drunks with nothing to do, and not particularly gentle. Jeffrey wanted to go hunting. He preferred fancy hunting, while I held a fondness for regular hunting.
To settle the feud, I offered to play rock-paper-scissors. Jeffrey didn't like that idea, and punched me right in the nose. We then squared off to fight. I had a mean right hook, and got him right in the chin. Having a chin of steel, as folks did back then, he shook it off and kicked me in the groin. My groin could take quite the punishment though, and we continued to fight for another 15 minutes, quitting at the scheduled drinking time.
The rest of the hour or hours became a blur, and I woke up next to a sea otter that have found his way to he Nebraskan corn fields. Odd, indeed, but at our waking movements, he ran off, wearing the pants that were once upon my legs some hours prior. At that instant, we both agreed to hunt him down, but there arose the original argument.
I offered to play rock-paper-scissors again, and he accepted. I won, as I had the rock and he had the paper; back then, rock beat everything. We set off, only to get lost in downtown Lincoln. On my search, I stumbled upon a salesman that was lying in a ditch. He seemed like a man that could answer my questions. I asked him if he had seen an otter, wearing pants, beige pants. He pointed in a direction that no longer exists today. I gave him a fine tip, two woolen hats, as was the currency in those days.
After two hours of well-needed, pantless travel, I decided that I needed a faster way of getting around. As the invention of the bicycle had not reached the Nebraskan territory, I was forced to buy a unicycle. But my wallet was in my pants; Jeffrey was a poor man, an uncouth and poorly trimmed Newfoundlander. As far as bartering went, I got a unicycle (in dire need of repair) for a checkered shirt.
Ah, the checkered shirt; goose hats and checkered shirts quickly went in and out of style in 1919. I recall seeing a parade they held of the 55th day of January - in those days we only had two months, January and August - just because they felt like it, wearing just that. After the parade, I decided to treat myself to some bison. I streamed over to the local food-shack that carried everything; from food, to things consider illegal today. When the keep told me they didn't have bison, I rambled off in a language not known to man. Leaving disappointed I stopped at the tavern, where numerous drinks left in me a hazy stupor.
Six drinks... seven... eight. A boat for sale? Yes, a man was selling a speed boat. How much? He demanded a dime. All I had left, was a buffalo nickel from my shirt pocket. He agreed, but told me to dance. I danced a mighty fine jig, as was stylish back then.
I got the boat, and named it the Jackenhammerod. Later that evening, I realized, that in my drunken stupor I had in fact bought a mountain-goat. I returned to the bar with Jackenhammerod, and challenged the man to a new-fashioned bar fight, as we liked to do things back then. I won, keeping my new goat/boat and my buffalo nickel...
...
