Death be not proud

Quoth Bagelstein:

Though thou rains mighty and dreadful,
thou are not so...

My face and ego is drenched with the rain as well as my confidence...


terrible...

Tread Softly, Because You Tread On My Memes

Quoth Janglestein:

A slap happy hello to my fine and loyal companions, who have borne with my lack of postings. I am exceedingly well, and I trust that the internets which so bless me, have blessed each of yourselves in turn :-)

My dearest friend, favorite after-dinner mint, and South American mountain range has requested that I continue her meme. To understand her odd request, I first consulted my dear hellbound friend Richard Dawkins: "These alleged problems of memes are exaggerated. The most important objection is the allegation that memes are copied with insufficiently high fidelity to function as Darwinian replicators." I trust no further explanation is required.

I have been requested to provide seven things about my lonesome self, which my dearest readers were unaware of. Sadly, I am afraid this is impossible, as I have made my heart open to the critical eye of the Web, who have chastised and abused it to the point of disrepair. But in the hopes of passing on my liquidy memes to future memerations, I will search my soul once more.


1. Sarah Nielson was not my first love. Indeed, I have loved many and lost many, from Lisa Bonet to Marty Feldman. In my mind I had oft lived the polygamist lifestyle, mentally fornicating with dozens, nay, baker's dozens at a time! But upon seeing the beautiful face of Miss Bellum, I promptly halted all other imaginary relationships, to devote my full attention to her and her alone.



2. While working in the fields of South Dakota as a child, Pa Jangle -- influenced by a bottle of "jolly juice" as he affectionately described it -- and myself would often dance nude on the nearby highway. Oh would how jolly we were, the breeze flapping our genitals about like windchimes, the slaps against our thighs keeping cool percussion with the melody to which we danced.

3. While Miss Bellum is, and shall always be, my true love, I have grown increasingly fond of RLO in these latter weeks. My dreams of establishing a euphoric den of pleasure in the Sierra Madres with Daisy and Snielson may, indeed, be able to squeeze and make room for the ably-bodied metrosexual. But 'tis no sense fantasizing about the icing when I have not yet attained the cake itself, as my dear father says.

4. I bathe with water alone. The Janglestein family has always preached the importance of liquid, and an absolute disgust for all cleansers, which erode away at the nerves of the skin. I am valiantly hoping that Sarah is also of this opinion, so that no arguments may break out during the inevitable intimate showers which would occur in our relationship.

5. As miss Nielson no longer posts on the weekends, I have pursued other activities to pass the time. These include kegels, mead brewing, and autofellatio. Sadly, none has yet been mastered, and many a muscle has been twisted in the process.

6. When my mother finally admitted the falsity of Santa Clause's existence, I wrenched every hair from my head, and promptly stuck them in the chimney, in a moment of extreme childhood tantrum. Paralyzed with depression, I did not post on Sarah's blog for three days after this incident.

7. For months I have poured out the broth of my soul upon the crock pot of the web. Yet often, my dearest friends claim to know nothing about me. Baffling as this is, I heartily invite any and all to remedy it at this instant: ask me any question you desire, and your lowly Jangling companion will answer for this, the 7th of my Memographic off'rings.

Beliggerant Duties

Quoth: Bagelstein

How many times must I, wake up to find my laundry had not been erased from my plane of existence to find it in Africa with Beyonce and Karim Abdul Jabar? Hmmm? Don't answer that...

I walked from my lowly hovel down a road. It was a dirty road, full of the scum of society's dregs emptying into the earth like a undue punishment from a cruel unloving god (there is no such thing. And as I strolled through my arches of communes I found the hut where my fabricating deeds could be done. To my undue fortune, not unlike an ostrich playing scrabble posthumously with Ted Kennedy, the machina that growled fearsomely was unoccupied, distracted by the fruits of its labor, slathering it's drool upon its metal bounty. Today was was a good day to wage war to be sure.

I was a battle on two fronts. A lost general had yet to return to his arsenal, his troops abandoned left shivering in the moist air around them. The unholy abominable machine of reckoning, that stood motionless, as no fear could overcome, not even when his gates could be breached. I unwittingly fed his thirst of war, his body began to rumble, and the day would commence, though I would win. I already knew.

And now I wait, As my troops battle within it's confines I wait unwittingly, soon the battle will be won, and I will be clothed in my victory...

Change?

Quoth Janglestein:

I arrived home this afternoon to find great jubilation upon Sarah Nielson's blog. I was intrigued, no doubt, as to what we were celebrating, but happily joined in the festivities (as is my Janglin' nature). I then proceeded to visit CNN.com to learn about the event for which both my "rocking" and my "cock" were supposedly out.

To my unseemly horror, I discovered this. I am deeply appalled that my friends would celebrate the untimely passing of Michael Crichton!

Albeit, his tale was a bit muddled, and prehistoric creatures do bring my jimbles to trembling frequencies. Perhaps I understand why those few herpetophobics may have celebrated this passing, not unlike the short, dancing glee of Baum's little creatures upon the Western Witch's demise.

What frightens me more is that, while the news claims he died of cancer, many upon Miss Bellum's blog have taken credit for the act! "We did it" they exuberantly claim! Therefore I must conclude that they are, indeed, the causes of cancer.

To have friends with such power is incredibly frightening. Strangely erotic, no doubt, and my respect for my darling Nielstein has gone up immensely. But frightening nonetheless. :-)

Abridged: For Kel

Quoth Bagelstein:

It is I. Your Hebrew national, taking a bite out of crime and into high cholesterol and reruns of Oprah. The traveler of womanly kind, kind in all manner and words, asks of us to bestow the words of kindness and conceivery, in effort to lift a veil from my obfuscated ways. I say NAY! Though I, a mindful adjudicator of penguin shamans of the world, feel a kingly vow of chivalry towards them who know nothing. I am a Veil of riddles I am, listen well to my plan, away away, and off I go.

Who are you I ask? Actually, that you ask. I am neither. We are a collective, with knowledge of intimacy, collecting to distribute intimate wisdom, not derisive, lo unfacetious, and how sar-cleverly. The world is our oyster, to parade and dance all the time, to live in such luxury, it would be almost a crime. We reach into the minds of many to pirate their wealth and skiffs of PFCs. Abridged we are a crafty bunch, few and bold alike. our mission clear and simple, to spread the fire of spite. For the markets of Genoa are ripe a plenty, with Athens bold and provocative, yet the legions of Gaul are many, poisoning the well. No one likes romantics. That's where realism came from fool!

Abridged: For Kel

Who we are, that is...

I Sing a Song of Simple Solipsism

As my noble friend Janglestein thaws from his journey, hundreds of miles from here, and as Bagelstein continues to befuddle with his nonsensical images and words, I implore you to ask yourself, do I, Wafflestein, exist? And what of the rest of the Trollpop? And what of this blog? Are you really reading one? Or is this all a dream?

You know dreams. You've felt them. How do they feel? Real? Real. A dream is indistinguishable from reality, for as long as you are trapped within its grasp. The logic of dream is incomprehensible to the waking mind, but is forever in tune with the dreaming mind, which shifts forever to accommodate it.

Last night I dreamt I was flying alone on a carpet. The carpet had always been a car. There was a dog with me, and he had always been there. I was uncertain about landing - I had never done it before. I landed, and it was just the same as the hundreds of times I had done it before. I left my car and exited through the doors of the shopping mall that I had always been inside, with bags of the goods I had purchased. I was leaving my front door, empty-handed, to get the mail. There was no dog with me. There never had been. In dream, that which is always was.

Life is a pattern of dreaming and waking. Do you remember your first waking moment? Your first dream? Your childhood, even? Brief, dreamlike snapshots, maybe. Were you ever even counting odd, wake, even, dream? Or is waking even odd? Did dream predate birth? Are you in an odd-numbered state now? Are you sure?

Last night I dreamt I woke up. Sleep well.

Glory

Quoth Bagelstien:

The Produgal son hath returneth to giventh the lisp unto all!

Rejoice as I too, a jewyer of sorts, consult my day to ask "hello, how you do?"

Journey: Part I

Quoth Janglestein:

Greetings dear friends and readers! I have missed you, and I trust the likewise sentiment to be equally applicable. Messages of "come home soon!" which have graced my lowly Twitt'ring abode, has brought tears of joy to my travel-worn eyes.

In this cold October month, I embarked on a journey to meet my love, Sarah, face to face. Sadly, the fates did not smile upon my Jangling antics, and many trials were spewn at my face, dripping into my lonesome eyes, causing a great stinging. I have written my tale in full, and shall be posting it upon this blog in moderate portions. Like the Holy Trinity, it resides in three parts. I offer Part I now, to speak the words my twisted tongue would naught but muddle.


Book I: An Earthy Hymn
-----------------------------

Sur quelle route ma amour-fleur fleurit-elle ? Dans quel lac salin son âme réside-t-elle?

Αναζήτηση και βρείτε, le vent des réponses, Αναζήτηση και βρείτε.

Clinging –
the earth to my boot like a child

Rustling --
the leaves; reiterating the ancient percussion of Ophion

Mingling –
the dirt and the snow, a flawed purity

Singing --
the wind its breathy tune

(il ya la beauté)

I feel the message, biting and cool upon my jangling face,
It whispers to me an urgent secret

(à votre portée)

I climb higher atop the mountain peak

(non vi è bellezza)

The message infiltrating every pore
Of my lonesome, broken flesh

(a portata di mano)

My eyes are opened,
My journey clear.

I embark to find my Bellum.

(there is beauty within your grasp)

Book II: A Retelling
------------------------

“You look dreadful friend, simply dreadful. I’ve got plenty to warm you up. What’ll you have? You don’t say. Just here for some shelter then? Well I don’t blame you son, I haven’t seen rain like this in…oh…nine, ten years by my count. The floods came in ninety-eight, had to close shop it was so bad. Cost me a fort—no, no, that was ninety-seven, before the renovation. Or was it…”

The bartender’s chatter continued. I surveyed my surroundings. The room was saturated in a comforting aura: three elderly men were enjoying a game of darts, a young couple were engaged in flirtatious banter over a few mixed drinks, a blue collar fortysomething nurtured a pint in content nostalgia. I put my feet on the neighboring barstool, finally at ease.

“Say, what’s that tattoo you’ve got there? A bulldog dressed up like a pirate? What’s that? Oh, a pug you say? So sorry, an old fool’smistake.” If he caught the hint of yearning in my voice, he kindly ignored it. “You are a character, that’s for sure. Tell me, Mr…Janglewhat, you say? Ha! Now that’s an odd name. Makes me think of Frankenstein! Now, now, I didn’t mean to offend you; it’s all in good fun. You strike me as the traveling type, may I ask where you’re headed? Ah, LDS I suppose? Oh, well it was just a guess. At any rate I hope you’re not planning on heading out tonight: Green River will be flooded, I guarantee it. So tell me, Janglestein, what’s a fellow like you doing heading barefoot to a place like that anyway? Ah, love, yes, very romantic, but be more specific. A long story, you say? We’ve got all night...”

The drumming rain began its final crescendo. It had been a long night already.

Book III: Ripples
----------------------

SARAH

Floating atop the pool of my mind
The name had rested calmly, till
Jolted by the wind’s sweet calling
It moved

The ripples traveled outward
Toward the influx of my heart
Uncovering pain
Buried in the sands

“She has no love for me.” (Is your love then annulled?)
“She has rejected me.” (Have persistence)
“She does not know me.” (Know her stil)
“She will not meet me.” (Go, then, to her)

At this, all doubt was silenced
Left, like footprints, against the frozen ground.
My tears ceased dropping.
My fist unclenched my swollen member.
No longer would the overflow of my heart
Be naught but cream and saltwater.
Instead, it would be action.
To visit the source itself.
To visit

SARAH

Book IV: Time and Space
------------------------------

2:56 p.m., MST
10/11/08

Rain pours
on a saline sea’s
metropolis.

The sun has deserted her familiar heavnl’y post
But the celestial body of my affection
Moveth not

The scent of gingerbread permeates the air
Mingled with the gas of a
canine queen

So lies my angel, ‘neath sheets of linen
Neither cleaning, nor laundering, nor schoolbook learning
Only being

It was enough

3:56 p.m., CST
10/11/08

Rain pours
on the lonely road
of highway 83

My heart yearns for its happy fulfillment
My engine strains to quicken its speed
Both encumbered by time and space

A transient pleads with me silently
His thumb extended in my direction
I ignore it

Clinging to my treads for miles
Till returning to the ground once again
The only drifter I heed is the rain

It was enough.

Book V: Listening to the Radio Moments Before the Crash
-----------------------------------------------------------------

…Now the wintertime is coming,

The windows are filled with frost.

I went to tell everybody,

But I could not get across.

Well, I wanna be your lover, baby,

I don't wanna be your boss.

Don't say I never warned you

When your train gets lost…

Since I've been gone

Quoth Bagelstein:

Who am I to say in such a long leave of absence that I appear sane or without wit to tell and say that in all my extraneous absence that you are in fact a homo and etc etc, how do you do...

These times struggle like the tortoise or some other such mammalian reptile, clever and devious to make us believe the nonsense of quantum mechanics and such. As I the Clever Hans perform my deeds of valor throughout the city of scholars, who am I to say that the world has no fish left to speak. Dolphins maybe, but those clever bastards are on their way out too...

I greet all my fellow trolls and orcish associates, whom I miss greatly as the overgrown hedgerows embrace the catatonia of strawberry shortcake beverages. In our pursuit of capital gain, ourselves the Popular Trolls are without measure in this vast universe based around tomfoolery/doucebaggery, and yet we are so alone in our quest of bestowing the beseecher of their quantitative enlightenment.

Whorah Digerydah, I see you...

Bells, Whistles, and a Sack of Clams

Quoth Janglestein:

Greetings indeed to all who are still with us. Forgive me for my astonishingly low posting record, but I assure you the eloquence in my speech will soothe your nerves, and is far more powerful than action. While other blogs may offer you present posts, I offer you hope: hope that one day I will post again, and that post will restore Quoth Trollpop's status on not only blogger, but on typepad, on digg and beyond, as the greatest region of the entire webs.

Eagerly do I grasp for excuses for my lack of speech in weeks past, but alack, none of any depth spurts forth from this head of mine which I do rack so. Perhaps my fingers have simply run dry. Regardless, I must ask for each of you to bestow forgiveness upon this loved one who has gone so astray.

Forget and forget. Tis the Jangle way :-).

Motivating My Mesencephalon

Quoth Bagelstein:

If I were not the fool that I was, asking for the hearken angels to come from the heavens and give the sky lots of toys or some such nonsense I would understand that was a dire and unfitting request of the many that know the uncanny knowings of beavers. However my Mesencephalic phases bring me not the air I breathe but the food I crave and sounds I would wish to taste. I rely within the middle of my cerebral, awaiting reply from who should be considered greater. No tectum will let me comprehend the streaming video shows that are relayed to my sights, Nor Tegmentum capable of telling me the inner workings of the master planner. Who are you? What Am I? You are not? Nevermind...

To Dance with the Undine

Quoth Wafflestein:

Life beneath the waves is dead. Our pasts lie just beyond the reach of the sunlight's tendrils, half obscured by sand and grime, sealed away in the discarded footlockers of sunken ships, at depths to which no human may descend unaided, and to which even the soulless undine seldom venture.

But what is lost is best forgotten, and what is the past but an incomplete form of the present? All that was is contained in what is, and all that is is contained in what shall be.

So forget your sadness at the absence of the Trollpop over this past week. Let the dark clouds that have formed over your hearts melt away in the glorious sunshine that this blog now brings forth. Let mirth spring unrestrained from your lips in a glee unknown by the logical mind, remembering the infantile state before logic formed fully in your head, looking onwards to the senile state in which it will again be lost. What is life, but a brief moment of somber lucidity strapped between the ethereal years of bliss and dementia?

Laugh. Laugh until the blood drains from your face and all you can do is gasp for the breath further laughter demands. There is no happiness greater than that which exists in spite of all else. True bliss is not ignorance, but incomprehension.

"Life is a clusterfuck of conflicted interest."

- G.K. Chesterton, The Everlasting Man

Off to work! Off to work? Off to work!

Quoth Bagelstein

It is I, Off to labor in the sweaty underbelly of the Global work horse, on this grand ambiguous day, at my grand ambiguous location! On the way to my esteemed worker locale I daresay the hobo will know the smell so well that I shall linger in his thoughts that are but the mere price of seven rupees dipped in honey. I will slake the thirsts of many, and wrought asunder the evil axis of hungry lies against the gut! It will be a good day to wage war on the orifices indeed...

My overlords know me as a kind sort and loyal slave to the Machine that I am bound to. I am known to have much pride in them for our Commune is a proud one, older than time, dirt, and the great cosmic creator of the hot pocket. Do not fear my loss, for I am well at heart, capable of fighting the great machine in the ways of fisties.

Indeed I take heed to lord Jangles' Commands my place abdicated common responsibilities on the yester anon. My great foe Anonymom and his furiously varying rates of choco thievery will not return under threat of taxes and certainty. Jangle is a good lord. I obey his commands, as any dog would the piper.

A Miniscule Offering

Quoth Janglestein:

For all readers who are faint of heart, I must offer my increasingly profuse apologies for the violent word-battle which has emerged between our own Bagelstein and his Anonymously insulting tyrant. This is, generally a land of peace, but for the present it appears to have become more a battle ground than a shelter. While Bagelstein may rightly defend his territory, it is my dearest wish that this rage may continue no longer than absolutely necessary.

For tis Kriegstein who wars, and Assstein who spanks; Bagelstein is but a peaceful creature apt to spread his cream cheese from time to time, but otherwise wholly unprepared for such a warring environment. May we all join hands as one!

Ravings of a Brazen Anonymom!!

Quoth Bagelstein:

Quoth Anonymom!

Anonymous said...

Dear fuckingretardstein, learn to spell... Learn to type... Learn to write... but most of all, learn to SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Of all the blogs you've written there is only one half decent one, and even that one was shit compared to all the other Trollpops. You are a disgrace.

Now go crawl in a whole and die you stupid, stupid douche.

September 10, 2008 11:21 PM
Delete

Bagelstein Shall work this comment into a most glorious translation for the blogowebs!!!


Anonymom said...

Dear Captain Awesompants, learn to spell... Learn to type... Learn to write... but most of all, learn to PLEASE THE HOLY PICKLE BRIGADES!!!!

Of all the blogs you've written all speak the songs of angels and pie, and even your most recent ramblings show the greatness of your wits! I am a homo!

NOW I SHALL FURIOUSLY MASTURBATE ALL OVER MY GRAVEY BASTER!

September 10, 2008 11:21 PM
Delete

The error(s) of our Life(s) Is too few S's

Quoth Bagelstein:

Oh the folly of our ways! Why do they all call me a fool who eats his own words of the soupy discord spilling from my frothy mouth. Life has too few of many, when will the multitudes of nothings be capable of encroaching of what we have available to us?

I know not the knowing of nothing...

On a separate notepad. Those doubting the careless ways of bagels must repent of their folly! Unacceptable appreciatory ramblings of nothings they are... Dear Jangle knows thou hearts full of ire and confusion.

We are the legionnaires of new blog-0-wisdom!

Muck Muck... Mucky internet... Suck on that one!

Many Happy Returns

Quoth Janglestein:

I am pleased to announce that Sarah and I settled our petty differences and shall no longer be separated. Fear not children, you will be raised in an unbroken home :-D

A Sad Day Indeed

Quoth Janglestein:

I bid to my readers this day, sad news. Miss Nielson and myself have chosen to separate for a week, and potentially end this separation in divorce.

I, like you, am of course dumbfounded. But her words today have shown to me deeply rooted negative feelings towards myself which I, intoxicated with the vanilla extract of love, had never seen before. Such is love, such is love :-(.

And so, for this coming week, I will not be seen upon the Tales of Wit and Charm, nor shall I read any posts or comments upon the site. Should she so indicate after the week is over, I shall never return.

Why, you may ask, do I make this offer? The answer, of course, is love. Love forceth itself on no woman or pug; it is rather a fragile dance which, in synchrony, produces beauty, but in dissonant misunderstanding, produces naught but bruised feet and broken stilettos.

You, the children, are welcome on either of our blogs at any time during this week, and I do pray you'll visit this lonely Jangle often with words of support. I will have, I am sure, a plethora of lovelorn songs and poetry which my broken heart will yearn to share. Be there also for my dearest Sarah, for whom this time apart may be equally painful.

In Heart-Aching Sorrow,
Trollpop Janglestein

LAMENTABERRIES!

Quoth Bagelstein:
I. Bagel in Bagelstein, hark not lament,
Lamentaberries...
I. of Coke and comment, Hark not dissent,
Dissentiberries...
Who? Are the beligerent fools that trounce and trollop,
Trounceltrollopoberries...



Uppity, digerydo, I see you. Corporate Ikeman!

An Excerpt from the Doggerels of a Trollpop

Quoth Volkerstein:

"Canis lupus dingo dangle
Jingle-jangle stein
Lull would I in gyre spangle
Should dingo dangle mine!"

Hark! The herald Trollpop!

Quoth Volkerstein:

Children of the cyber net, Neilsteinians, Trollpopites, and rest; heed these words of guidance. Upon this stark and sterile land hath taken root a seed, festering deep in the hearts of the malevolent and smoldering to the brink of exhaustion such great iniquities as to leave the reticent of hand and malleable of tongue chagrined to states of grave and sheer apprehension - conditions since reserved solely for those of chaste and unadulterated fortitude, righteous in their power and momentous in their luminosity. Yet extol upon me not the acclaim owed those whom indubitably rest exempt of reticent praise, for rapidly approaches the day on which all whom hear the call from the darkest recesses of the mind - wherein resides the radiance of immorality - and answer willfully shall fall under the indicative judgment of unabashed retribution. Hark, for I am Volkerstein of the Trollpop brethren.

One in the Jangle is worth two in the Jingle

Quoth Jinglestein:

I must explain my absence and abscesses.

1.  The absence was due to soul-searching.  By fasting ever so monastically I hoped to find my soul..........and..........good news! I found him.  You'd never guess where the lil bugger was hiding either.  It turns out, he was in the fiber of my being!

2. The abscesses are caused by a rare and disfiguring skin condition :-|

Seeing my brethren bond together so goldenly has brought a swelling to my bosom.  In fact, not since I downed an entire pint of robitussin have my innards felt so swollen with medicinally-induced pride!  

My third ocular cavity is quaking with copulatory glee!  A solid 6.9 on the Richter Scale, if my meteorological degree from Vassar serves me correctly. ;-) There is one thing mind-scrabblingly unsettling about the above advert though.  I am, of course, referring to this she-beasts uncanny ability to remove her spoon from her nose!  It sets my chains a-jingling and my heebies a-jeebying just mulling this over, under, and every which way.  One can only imagine what the next logical step would be: forks removed from knee caps, skewers removed from epicanthic folds!  My mother always used to say, "A Mongoloid may feel down because of his syndrome, but he'll feel worse without his skewer."

Stay strong, my fellow epicanthally-inclined friend, and keep that utensil deeply rooted in your smell factory!

Jumping Jehovah's fat, I fear I am late for a cough syrup symposium with my fellow popping trolls, good day to you!

Brother of Sisters or Brother Again Rejoice in the words of Trollpop

Quoth Bagelstein:

Hark! Behold the writings! the. Writings. What?

Our brother of meagerly jewelry jew-er-y is fortunately of famely disposition, says this jew with messianic knowledge of the diamond hearted soldiers of Abraham. I toast my brotherly sisterly brotherly androgen ravings that uplift and take the heart of every young watermelon in bloom.

The stock in our harking is at a close with bull markets and high vaulted chapels where the CEOs worship the golden calf of prosperity. Soon us shall rule the Internets speaking fire and madness for all those in pursuit of collective clowning, (cloning?) yes.



My friend the Jangle of jingle and jolly as all kringles of yore. Salutation and celebration towards you. Let all raving of pretentious thoughts be laid aside. I mock and flap my fingers at the unkeenery on the internets, fools they are, dangerous in themselves, exceeding that of Mir Jangle.

"Fools are eager to condemn pie and its ways of flavory treason in lue of its treacherous cousins, the meat pie of savory intent. Lo! Do not fear the pie! Accept, partake and eat of it. But fuck peach pie... Noone likes you >:O"

~Trollpop Piestein.

A Fine Day For Sunshine

Quoth Wafflestein:

It fills me with joy to see my cohort Janglestein to be so wonderfully honored on Miss Neilson's blog. Frankly, there were a few among us who were worried that his obsession would yield nothing, but he has come forth as chief among the Trollpop, and for that I can only congratulate him.

But to the rest, I say, show yourselves! Jinglestein! Bagelstein! Assstein! You have sat in silence for too long! The hordes of the internet grow in number daily, and you sit by and do nothing? At a time like this, your support is crucial. It is written:

Pestilence is not your only foe. Nor is Death, War, or Famine. Apocalypse will begin within you. Complacency is the road to destruction. Act now, lest the future bring you misery, with the blame resting wholly on your own shoulders. Your fate is your own.

- Stevenson, The Death of Convenience

A Cool Dip In the Pond of Dreams

Quoth Janglestein:

I write, late this eve (or early this morn, as my current happy proximity to dawn suggests), in sheer, exuberant ecstasy.

In a mere pocket-full of hours, my words shall appear on the #1 region of the internet. My own close friend, idol, and obsession, Mr. Sarah B. Nielson, has agreed--nay, REQUESTED--to a guest post on my behalf.

Ever since I was a wee little Janglet in the locust-ridden corn fields of South Dakota, I have dreamed of naught but this moment -- to step inside the high-heeled footwear of Sarah Nielson for a day and sing my tales to world as she, so eloquently, doth. Now, with my entire life's ambition staring at me expectantly like an innocent, Mongoloid child, I must ask -- what is left to dream in this little old head of mine? What does one do when his life's work has been completed in a matter of months?

Naturally, the next logical steps have all occurred to me. Now that I reside upon her Tales of Wit And Charm, one might equally expect me to move into Nielstein Manor itself, living happily among the RLOs, Daisys, and so have yous of the world.

Yet after then, what? Shall we co-write a weekly newspaper article regarding our own love, dating, and entertainment? Ah, certainly a time will come for this as well.

As surely as the rock I sit on, all of these things will come to pass. But enough speculation; today is not a day of dreams, but of jubilation. With my fathers and mothers watching from below in joyful agony, I feel nothing if not pride. Let the battle cry of all Trollpop ring far and wide, stretching out across the seas in loud, orgasmic joviality!

Ironic indeed that on this Labor Day, we celebrate the pangs of growth, the crowning of achievements, and the birthing of a new and glorious life of Janglestein, Assstein, Wafflestein, Bagelstein, Jinglestein, Volkerstein, and Kriegstein!

A Short History

Quoth Janglestein:

At the behest of Beaches (a Nielstein commenter / category of sandy locale found at the border of green and blue portions of the Atlas), I will allow myself to answer a series of strange question, seemingly irrelevant to my personhood. All important information about myself, and other Trollpop, are the words of inane wisdom ingrained within this Blog; etched on the tablets of Beyond Fiber Optics And The Dingo Within; scratched in the bedpost of the Internets; tattooed upon the buttock of each and every post with loving grace.


So writeth the Doubting Tomato:

Trop could be drop dead fuckable and is hiding behind a weird personality. UGH!! Or he could be drop dead weird and never been fucked

He is one of those people I would have to tell to “shut-up” after a bit..just too chatty cathy for me.

So Trop…. we are all curious

Age
Height
Weight
Sex
Hair Color
Body Hair?
Bath?
Virgin?
Employed?
40lK?
Do you live at home?

Lets pretend you are wooing us women…let us know the important stuff.

Let me begin by stating that I am extremely, nay, SOMEWHAT offended that Mr. Beaches has likened me to a necrophiliac. I am attracted to no drop-dead body, and rest assured, when my own body has dropped dead, none shall soil it! Thy sandy loins will never be allowed near my Jangling corpse!

Offense swells equally within my other lung at the thought of myself being a "chatty cathy." Is speaking a sin? Have I in any way grieved thy bottle-strewn, hobo-infested shores, oh Beaches? I am not a Cathy, but a Man!

And thus, I answer the fourth question. Let me begin.

Age: Were I milk, I would have long ago curdled. :-)

Height: Roughly the distance from the twirlin-tips of my head to the tap-tap-tappin toes of my feet. Give or take a cubit.

Weight: I am heartily full of life, exuberance, lustful desire, and bacon. Seventeen thousand pounds, one would reckon. But very little of this is physical.

Sex: Not unlike the chains worn by soldiers, the box containing parcels, or a powerful Nordic whirlpool. One would assume my blatant attraction to Cap'n Daisy would reveal this attribute about my privatey parts.

Hair Color: Tis the shade of the gift, given by Jacob, upon his favored son.

Body Hair: More than enough for your sea-salty fingers to bask in deary ;-)

Bath: I believe made this quite clear in prior comments and as such can only give a knowing wink and smack my lips in disdain!

Virgin: That I have preservethd my blessed flower for Sarah and Daisy Nielson ought come as no surprise to you! >:-O

Employed: All jests and jocularities aside, I have a current full-time preoccupation with a very secret admirer, whose charming tails and wits continue to tickle my insides more than any paycheck.

401K: While I do, sincerely, believe it will cause a vast error in computers, banks, etc., I am happy to announce that I shall not be alive in three-hundred-nine-and-ninety-thousand years, and as such, haven't the foggiest fear in my ole tattered head :-)

Do you live at home?: I am confounded and perplexed. Where on earth would one live, were it not his home? Nay, I am not like the many drifters who sleep on thy sands at night! How would I then access these tubes by which we speak?

Lets pretend you are wooing us women: Hungry creature as I am, I am always wooing us women! That you, yourself, are not wooed, calls only alarm to thy womanhood; not my own skill.


Tis always sad to dispel a mystery. Yet now my soul is laid bare as Smokey himself, and out I puff the fires of any sense of privacy. For you, Beaches, I now vulnerate myself, and cast into thy ferocious waves, my life rolled tightly in a small glass bottle. If the sharks of identity theft snap their jaws at me, so be it!

Or, as the Great Poet once said:

Les plages est une vache laide

A Tweet for Old Man Weatherby

Quoth Janglestein:

It is my grave duty to inform thee that, upon the request of the possessor of a fornicating visual orb, I have come into possession of a very strange contraption. The elusive, chirping splendor that is Twitter.

Strangely, I haven't a clue a-foggy how to work such a contraption. I will, upon request of aforementioned promiscuous visual organs, write often to this beast, and see, from there, what will occur. The name which I have given it is "janglestein".

I trust my efforts will not be in vain--so give Jangle a Jingle and instruct him on the ways of this mysterious flying creature to whom I entrust my secrets.

A Pleasant Deviation

Quoth Janglestein:

Tis a morn, tis a morn, gents and gently's.

I wished to write a succulent novel regarding my relationship with Sarah Bellum, as I, on most days, opt to do. However, today's wine of events has filled my moral palette with a bad aftertaste. I am speaking, of course, about the perpetual sadness which the daily news brings forth.

While the sizzling of my bacon commenced, I sat on the couch this morn, requiring a mere handful of minutes of entertainment. My eyes, instead, were filled with sorrow. Planes crashing into houses, Madrid filling with flames, and Fay ravaging Florida.

Why, I ask myself, do such wicked events occur in such a joyful, erotic world as the one in which you (and, on occasion, I myself) live?

That, however, is not a question of importance to ask, but merely a prelude. The greater question plaguing my mind is as follows: What, in fact, is in bacon, which makes it sizzle so, in a way which, say, a Pug or reproductive organ would not, when placed on a similar frying pan?

Weighty matters require weighty thought! But such is the life of one who dares to Jangle with fate.

A Hearty Stew of Delight

Quoth Janglestein:

Forgive me, brethren, for the silence to which I have been accustomed in days past; but in my absence, a Wafflestein has sprung forth among the branches and given a warm, warm reception.

My only concern is as follows: there seems to be a fellow, lurking within these walls, named "Anonymous." On my dearest of friends' (and flame-broiled mistress to boot!) blog, he simultaneously announced my absence, responded to himself, and attributed to me a love of feet which I do not possess!. I fear for such a fellow; he appears to have multiple personalities behind which he hides. My heart crumbles for such a strange creature as this, to feel the need to mask one's own identity! The absurdity makes my smiley-parts dance with waltzy glee; laughter erupting, in 3/4, within my kidneys.

But alooth and forsack, the dream world beckons me like a podiatrist beckons a small child with lolly pops and sugary aromas. Till then, safe travels.

Inactivity

Quoth Wafflestein:

I apologize for the absence of my fellow trollpop, whose janglings so often fill this blog with mirth and jubilation. It would appear he has fallen down a well, or perhaps been left haunting the undersides of too many bridges.

Nevertheless, I believe that we can all stand together and anticipate his hasty return and recovery. What wonders await us when he finally makes his joyous return?

Janglestein has not jangled his last. Far from it. I apologize that I cannot fill this space adequately in his absence, but the muse which jangles so freely in his heart has been less generous towards my own. I leave you with a quote from the one and only Sir Manfred Esling, the first German exile to ever achieve knighthood, whose contributions to philosophy cannot be overstated:

It is not in vain that we wait. For even if that which we await never arrives, anticipation is itself a hope and a happiness, and is but a single step away from being the physical manifestation of that which we hope for, different only in its physical absence and in the amplification of its good aspects, and the dampening of the poor. Hope is, in all practical senses, a step greater than that which is hoped for.

- Esling, Of Tantalus and Temptation

Weeks of Aching Veins

Quoth Janglestein:

Since last I spoke with you, the moon has floated 90 degrees around, and boy did I see it coming!

My rage regarding the Non-Troll mixup has subsided, only in place for a passionate lusting for all things Neilish which makes my bladder throb like so many belly aches. Ah, love, such a feeling as this few can comprehend.

My week may be appropriately summed up as follows:

Twas one loofah of a week!

But alack, my stomach yearns for the sweet fragrance of cold tomato soup and yams. Till next we meet, vaarwel!

A Trifling Mistake

Quoth Janglestein:

It is with medium surprise that I have come upon a shocking revelation, one which fills my gelatin bones with frivolous laughter!

Recently, a certain Nielstein (who will not be mentioned to save her identity) began to date a large chocolate cake named Non-Troll Doll. More recently still, they have ceased to date.

I, naturally, bring grievous words of comfort and celebratory, melancholy nothings to attempt to ease this pain. But what toy have I found in the bottom of Cracker Jack's (the white-supremest gangster, mind thee) box of treasures?

Ha!

The very thought of it makes me agonizingly gigglical. Many have mistaken ME for this fool! On what grounds? The "troll" similarity? Do they not realize how COMMON a name is troll? On this very blogs, there are six, nay, seven who all happen to be named "Trollpop"! Yet "Non-Troll" and "Trollpop" being mistaken? Sheer madness!

And yet...

A glimmer of hope resides within these walls.


If so many have made a mistake such as this...yet have posted glorious things regarding this NTD fellow such as a "catch", a "keeper", one to "keep around" -- all phrases whose meanings I haven't the slightest idea -- and followed them with smiles and joy...why...perhaps oneday in the soon future, I will indeed replace that void, and become for her the Troll she has always required. And all readers near and far will celebrate in juicy splendor, till celebration emerges from our lips like so many butterflies! :-D

But for now. Anger.

Quoth Bagelstein:

A jew is a hue of jewy chewy gooey chum. Children gather and hear your father speak of the glory days, upon the holes that they once were! I come from a land fallen from a sky most high in the air. I asked my little marsupial the meaning of life, to which he remarked pie... be off with him.

If I could ask all the sphere - o- blogs to raise their hands in settlement on our great agenda I say Nay! this.

People ask me the same question when i wear my shoes upon my brow, looking into their eyes with foul discontinuity. why must the werere be pined and asked so long as a gerbal meets the molded requierments?

I talk as if a demon caught my tougue in fierce disposition. Yet i ask a treatise of my readers to submit to the will of great gerbalitis, the king terror of the night, formely known as mother goose and her gooey ness. MorrGAN FREEEMAAAAAN!

Adulterous Confectionary!

Quoth Janglestein:

Upon reflecting on the blog of my love and colleague Mr. Sarah Bellum Nielson, I have felt a spark of self-examination alight within my large intestine.

She has claimed to be dating a piece of Chocolate Cake. We gather, by her illustrious detail, that it contains raspberries, and as it commonly goes to parties, we may infer by deduction that it is, in fact, a Birthday cake. Appalled that another has wedged his member between I and Mrs. Nielson's affections, I hunted it down.


I have found it. It belonged, once, to a woman by the name of Taste Goblet, then proceeded to enrich the lives of "Lavanyai" and "Mohina" (see its tattoos) before finally dripping down into the rut in which our fair friend lives.

Jealousy fills my bones, as this cake-whore is allowed to delight in the company of Bellum and Daisy, while I, a cake-virgin until death (albeit not, persay, a pie-virgin) must wait in line!


I apologize. My frustration regarding this instant is rude and uncalled for, and I pray for this Non-Troll Cake and others like it to forgive the janglings of an old lovelorn, crusty-piped sailor such as myself. Each to his/her/cake's own, as the saying goes, and thus go I.

To Thee False, Do Not Entry

Quoth Trollpop:

And certainly many will try and steer me from the goal. What goal you say? The goal of jubilence! Infused with traces and pieces of both soccer balls, and numerous latinos.

Now I won't go there but if you will that's fine by me.

I won't retrace my steps toe the abode of the hispanic; though valiant and well-mannered in the ancients of quesadilla, it is thorouhgly and utterly devoid of the tact so common to a TrollPop. Accordingly, my fist will make do as something that I can't even see from here cause I mean wow this is long.









:-|







:B





So a one two, a one two, a three four and BAM. You're off the map. I bet you are quite surprised at this turn of events. I understand there's much to take in but an adept mind and a discerning spirit will integrate and dissect the maps and quandries of success found scattered amongst this post.

And by George, do I have one large tack up the whammy.

The Sink Also Draineth

Quoth Janglestein:

True to my word, as surely as the sun has risen a pair since I last wrote, I write now. :-)

I accept your burnt offerings of thanks, and in return dish out fatty lumps of welcomes.

Goodbye.

A Hapless Vesicle

Quoth Janglestein:

Eves, afternoons, and goodwill to you all, gents and gentesses :-/ I am good and you are fine.

A summary of my weekend in two photographs:



As you can see, an enjoyable, if dully predictable weekend. "So it goes", sings the Bard. Perhaps next weekend new events will occur.


Prologue aside, I am filled to the bursting point with the labor pangs of curiosity. The question crowning within me is as follows: do all who read my Janglings comment, or do some wither away in silent anonymity? I have birthed this question out of empathy for my dearest Katestein, who comments in loneliness, with no others to accompany herself. Would that there were dozens, nay, bakers dozens of Kates to spring forth from this fertile land and fill my soul with joy innumerable :-D

;khanskruqoi;n m,djq;ruijhlk;43

Ack! Forgive me! I have spilled my mug of pork grease upon the keyboard! Speedily I go to clean it. Till the sun rises twice, happy trails and happier trials to you all.
:-(

Bi Viagral

Quoth Bagelstein:

Of community I speak! COMUNITY?

Dost I shouteth in slack tongue. Do you know slack tongue? The tongue I dare say slacks on the flexible skins of cow hide. Yet Digress I do, heartily.

When I was with the representative of Bombay, he took a flower from the ground, exclaiming, "JOVE!"

And I exclaimed.

Pi.

Please Me Twice...

Quoth Janglestein:


...Shame on me.

Wonderful afternoon! :-( Today's will be a brief Jangle, as the sun tells me it is nearly time to slumber -- and my boils affirm this with gentle throbbing.

Today's joke comes from an old friend. "What do you do with an aging father? Drive a stake through his heart" :-D Oh Father, such a funny old man. Where do you get such preposterous janglings?

A thought has appeared to me just as I held the "SHIFT" and "/" key. All of us are, in fact, each other's fathers. And so, the same, are all of us one another's sons. Men, women, trollpop, Daisysteins; all a father to our sons, and sons to our fathers. For a small bits of me resides within all others, and from all others reside in me equally small bits. Bits of Kate, Morning Gruel, Sarah Bellum, and MyFuckingEye reside in my belly. And an equally important piece of myself lies within them.

This is truth. For we are all family. On Father's Day let us all give gifts of fleshy splendor. Let us bathe with one another, as a grown man bathes with his father.

Farewell my sons. Farewell my fathers. It's bath time, and the water is warm :-)

Ahum hum ho diddly hum

Quoth Janglestein:

I come you to this morn with a metronome in my heart, band on my wrist, drum in my ear, soul in my feet, and a fist in my stomach.

All this to say, the mood which surrounds me is a pleasant one, filled with sound, some of it musical, some of it the sound of a fist in my stomach :-( I trust that you are the same?

This week has been a fruitful one. I will not tell you why, but trust me when I say this; it was likely far more fruitful than your own. I did many things, saw many people, spoke into many a phone, watched many a screen, ate many a food, et cetera, et cetera till the cows come marching home! Oh ho ho, I kid not.

And you, sir or mr.? 8-o

Title :-\

Quoth Janglestein

Greetings children.

Today's will be a short post, as times are few, hunger rampant, and my bowels a-ready to plunder.

I have thought much this morn, during mine daily post-coital pre-breakfast pondering hour. Some ponderings were pleasant as the milky sun drips its rays upon our knees, some dreary as a wolverine descends his teeth into our loins, but all with a passion that rivals the two angriest of lovemakers. The whips cracked upon the bare backs of my mind, my collared necklace raging against the knowledge which I pursue.

Most ponderances are far, far to deep for such an internet as this to comprehend. But I leave you with one: In which nostril does the soul lie? Choose wisely, lest ye be chosen :-(

Till morrow comes with smiling bits of plendor, I take my leave swifter than a wingless bird takes his life.

Riddle Me Sideways

Quoth Janglestein:

Pork-filled blessings to you all :-\!

This morn, above all other morns, my spine has tingled with the warmth breath of summer upon my pelvis. With a cough of laugher, I awoke covered in the warm, salty dew of sweat. I nearly drowned :-)

Jokes aside, it was a happy weekend, few things considered. I spent many hours pouring over bowls of shrimp cocktail, with mornings of slumber, noons of intoxicating frivolity, and eves of liquor and toast as my mind performed vaudeville acts aplenty, G-rated and otherwise ;-). 

But enough about myself. How was your weekend? It was mediocre and wholly unremarkable. You lazed about the barnyard over the afternoons, and during night wandered through the city, meeting old acquaintances you rather not had met. You watched small amounts of television, drank a glass of wine or honeydew juice, and slumbered upon the couch.

:-|

The Temporal Transom

Quoth Wafflestein:

Once in a great while there comes, in lieu of progress, a reconsidering of pre-existing ideology so radical that it permanently redefines the course of the discipline, shedding a new light on all subsequent additions and revealing meaning and importance that the original authors were entirely unaware of. It would appear, then, that the importance of time is greatly overstated: that in fields such as these, ideas exist beyond time. It is as though each day is given a single room, and those rooms subsequently line an infinite hallway, and each room has a receiving slot from the day before, and a drop box for the next, and information is transferred thusly. The doors to these rooms are permanently locked, but the transom above is open, and pieces of the grandiose ideas that fill the hallway drift through at random, where they are interpreted in accordance to the past, and passed on to the future. What great pieces of this puzzle have been lost in the past, and what revelations await us in the future? How will we be redefined?
- Haager, The Temporal Transom

To this work of genius, I have nothing to add. I can only suggest that you purchase a copy and read it in full: Haager's introduction only scratches the surface. May the blissful ear-dwellings of lore haunt you gently. Let your soul remain un-pierced by the modern hour.

9 In. And It's Path To Divinity

Quoth Trollpop:

Forthcomingly, this paragon of a 24 hour period has perplexed me with the shining and the shimmering of it's light. The sun rises and falls and only the vast earthphiles that inhabit it can gaze on its bagel-shaped divinity. Oh what holy divinity! What might that soars from the rays of the great ball and how its fires strike us with the fury of 108 degrees celsius! What being so magnificent and rotund, quivering with the calories and fat of 5,000,000 ho-ho's, could render the lifeless into Juicemageddon(the juice only for children, albeit composed of the great peach nectar, as sir Master Arthur of the Public Broadcasting fame has taught us for many moons)?? The answer: We know this is how it is meant to be.

And now: the earthphile questions "why"?

Such a question is an engima in itself, a delightful nugget of dark chocolate pudding. Pudding that enraptures our spirits with life and <3, until we burst with the most fanciful of twirling. To undertake the role of spiritual master is difficult, and the way is hidden. To uncode the meanings and puzzles of a Trollpop is akin to removing the arms of a massive gorilla. This gorilla has been lashed 80 times by his cruel Lion-man, and has been force-fed a variety of hallucinogens and marijuana filled fudge cakes for days on end. And a man would dare attack this sadistisc BAMF(see: book) machine? Oh only the most n0ble and intoxicated of you fascinating lot would attempt such an idealistic manuever. But hear the words.....the sweetest of ribs and the whitest of Wonderbread awaits you masculine, six pack totin', runtmeisters. And my own title and eyelids have been staked on this bet.

The chirping birds above me are whailing to remove the eggs from their hatches, so my way must continue in their direction. I will uncover the curtains from behind my eyes to dispel the darkest of felines that would steal my rightful snack. Through many fists to their eyeballs, the victory will be held in my knuckles until I rejoice and partake in an erotic eat-fest of the orgasmatrons known as blue jay eggs. Fine thee well 0 beautiful followers(Katestein is blessed above many and shall be made empress # 34 of the kingdom), my journey began 8 hours past. Or something. ( | )8p

Methinks a Cupid

Quoth Janglestein

Jovial salutations to my fellow trollpop!

Stuffed-jalapeño welcomes and a hearty round of "hello's" to other readers.

Today, as I lay in my loincloth amidst my bed of daffodils, I wondered to myself -- why am I here?

Of course, the answer came quickly, as vomit follows a gag or I follow a woman down an empty night alleyway. I trust you all know the answer; I will not bore you with the luscious details.

All this to say, I am wistfully craving the taste of cold beef stew in the morning. But alas, my cupboards are barren :-(.

Ding Dabbling

Quoth TrollPop:

Friend of nations, I bring you here today to witness me and this keyboard bring fruition to concepts. Bangin' concept?!?! Of course! what could be expected but the biggest bang of humdrumstrums?!

Nothing naturally.


HENCEFORTH...you will see hair standing on end and risen up above the height of the individual, and rising high it will stand erect! (the word erect is finealicious) But the story must be told.

Frankler and Betty worked hard in the Island that Feldman had invested $3 million in. Feldman required a mere centimeter of earthly pleasure from the two, and the deal would be intact and in fact. Now though, Frankler was disturbed at this and wandered in the plains of forever with his celestial cat. Frankler road to and fro on Frankie J the cat and took Betty to his favorite resting spot: tree stumps. Betty and Frankler established their contract of love-making in the matter of minutes and seconds before Feldman was astonished at this sight!"

"CURSES ALMIGHTY! Such an elegant aroma of iced charged shots has not excited this bratwurst since the turn of the last centerfold!" , said President Feldman.

I too was offended. And thus, I concluded our tale. Frankler and Betty were found ejected in pieces from the rectal cavity of Frankie J the following morning. We mourn them to this day. :-( However, all is not lost children. I know you eyes weep scarlet beads of h20 but this is essential to the cause. It is unfortunate but true forthcoming. In another age, I would have purchased strawberry shortcake for you and any and all one eyed behemoths(Daisystein ranks as top priority in my list of Criminal Terrors), but my funds run low like the breasticles of woman 80 years in lifetime(Admittedly, Channel 52).

Piece of advice for you dingos; throw it in the oven. God. >:-\

What the F*CK is juice?

Quoth Bagelstein

What is juice? what are tomatoes filled with seeds beneath hobsobbery unlike the clitoral regions of our liking? Jewy fornication is apparent in the world driven by cars, hair, cars, hair, etc.

Jolly times and fagotry burn away lustly sticks into oblivion, while apery in the purest house, commences on morrow on the day. You just witness the grand chiasmus enter upon a dimmer hold of cavernous dungeony, like that place in france where all women are like monkeys. While Senior White Face is trimmed to fit a new tupe, I say no to Fornication on orange smoothie rubbish, why is fuel on the debate of cows?

BURN IT AWAY LIKE FATTY CURSINGS OF TOMFOOLERY! WHY DOST I SHOUT SO?

Sing the Acute, Right, and Obtuse Angels, Joy Joy Joy

Quoth Janglestein

It is with joy a-plenty and asparagus a-few that I have found, this morn, that my internets have not been, nor likely will be, refused passage onto Sarah Nielson's refuge of Charms and Wits alike. As I gaze now upon the open expanse of land surrounding me, the vast soil upon which my comments, like potatoes, grow fertilely, I am struck with a large, beefy smile, and tears of fearsome pride.

I give passionate thanks to Sarah Bellum for granting me this privilege. May it go unpaid for centuries :-/!



!

Fearsome, Loathsome, Jetsam

Quoth Wafflestein

Know this: we trollpop are legion. And as passage of day cascades into duty-less and (dare I say) quintessential night, let the strength of our numbers guide you into a firm respite of tabulation. But let not this apparent victory get beyond our collective spirit and arise into a cadence of inter-jubilational thought; for this course of action is unwarranted, unremedied (and I dare say unremediable), and premature.

 A stipulation of our key assets yields the dire truth: though much is to be celebrated, for the day is indeed a glorious one, and every second reeks upon the eyes a sight so heavenly, celebratorial, so positively incandescent, so transcendent of our sullen and tear-stricken abode that we so graciously choose to call "home," though all these things must hold key place in our hearts and minds as wonderful, perhaps even magical, we must not lose sight of our future, of the trials we have yet to face, of the glory we have not yet surpassed.

Fellow trollpops, gentle steins, dear readers of questionable origin and unquestionable taste, indigenous mountain peoples, generational fishermen of the Greater Antilles, purveyors of modern fashion, this is for you. Veterinarians, soulless slaves to corporate America, humble handsome cab drivers, belligerent school teachers, this is for you. Coin-operated laundry machine repairmen, I'm sorry, but your time has not yet come. But to the rest I say, rise, and join in the liberation of our noble dogma, join and excel in the exhortations, in the exultations, in the exacerbations of our ex-communicated and extraneous expatriates. Give rise to hollers that would shake mountains, crumble castles, and pulverize the very core of our society's finely hand-crafted pillars of oppressive anti-restitutional inflammatory condemnation. As it is written:

The Day is anon
And the hour is night
The noble, with rapiers
Thrust to the sky

In pillars of darkness
In chariots of night
The cold and the listless
The champions of light

Against every treason
Each angular foe
Shall hasten the season
and truncate the woe

The cries of the vanquished will cease
And peace will come gently
With the evening breeze

- Sturmond, Visions VI-XII

As hopelessly romantic as Sturmond's poetic utterances may be, there is truth in them that bears innumerable repeating: we have not lost. Our hope is not unfounded. There is room in the great ocular contrivance that is modern society for our kind.

Or one could read them as the deranged ramblings of a near-dead and surely near-demented bartender-cum-prophet. No interpretation is incorrect, except perhaps your perception of what, exactly, "deranged" entails. Strip the language of our own prejudices and connotations, and you may find more truth there than you had expected.

Now isn't that something to think about. :-/

"The only words I've ever regretted were these. Without them, I would be eternally content."
- Culver, Of Age and Amnesty

:-(

Quoth Janglestein

Missy Snielson and his gang of piratey followers have mistaken my wiseacre janglings as threats and insults, and many are now calling for the immediate blockage of my internets from gracing her fair site.

I pray this does not happen. The hearty wink of Mr. Captain Daisy, tales of wit and charm, hermaphroditic man-lady action movies, and glorious daily revelries never cease to fill my soul with sweet buttery joy, and a hint of cinnamony sorrow.

I will gravely miss them all if deed be done, and pray that Mr. Bellum will see the error of her ways and hold no sword to my vocal chords.

:-( Happy days no more.


:-) Or are they?

Beyond Geodudes and the Graveler Within

At long last children, the jinglestein makes his first appearance. Be not filled with trepidation, but rather feel the warm tidings carried within my loins spout onto your face, and be merry. This is a kind and gentle liquid, embrace it and become one. Is your heart not squeezed within a glass alcove in your chest so as to feel the flit of butterfly wings and the sour graze of first love in the fields of abundance? Is not the glistening pool of radiance enough to clip the toenail of God? And what a glorious clipper it is! Evolving from a mere sapling (or pupa if you will) into a fawning fledgling with the nectar of life sitting in his stomach and pervading his nubile body. Unto you I say, the sick and soulless, those without specks of future children in their eyes, wrap star anise pods about your bosom and kick the hoary old door of life ajar! What lies between the wax and wan is key, the mooning night sky flushes red with the blood of embarrassment and lights up the firmament in a blaze of menstrual glory. For this I deserve perdition? For this I am sent to rot amongst the nogoodnicks in some long forgotten gallows, to have my once lustrous tresses turn grey and my skin turn pallid and ghostly? It is all you who should be damned! You who suckle at your mothers teat with no regard for those lying in a gutter aching for a drop of the milk of human kindness to grace their tongues before retiring to the fecal chamber from whence they came!

All of this to say, don't trade away your Graveler, for he shall become a Golem and gain an unsavory temperament :-/.

Leik neo peost

Shit, a geodude! that was hunger who dingo said.

Nine times has the cola gone down the uterus of despair only to end up in the presence of then grenat cactus. Uteri have many despairs with thm colas which have so many times ended in wonders and joyfulnesses. Sometiems the golems comes out of the geodudes when they get put into the other despair after gravels. This has happened.

But otherwise noted that the plate is now dirty with tomatoes because all the other things have been eaten away and the napkin also now has tomatoes and is really a paper towel.

This has been great dingocactus and sorrows,
Trollpop Kriegstein. <3

A Clean and Hearty Meal

Quoth Janglestein:

Greetings, brethren and sistren, to a beautiful Sunday morn. I awoke with the ejaculations of the great yellow Orb dribbling down mine face through the window above, and in its warm slimey splendor, I pondered -- "What breakfast cereal does the sun's gooey warmth taste like?"

The answer should be obvious. 1 part Kashi, 1 part Fruit Loop, and 3 parts avocado.



Alas! I have set loose a flood of blasphemies lurking beneath the implications of this noticing.

At the risk of death by stake, I will leave the Great Truth unsaid, and for your own male, female, Snielson, commadore Luke Perry, janitorial, Winky-Faced Pug, immaculate dragon eyes to piece together.

It is a long, fruitful ride, teaming with leeches. But the rewards are terrible :-(

Independence, Frenchies, and other Apery

I was at zoo, and the world was restless! how not i know not, for I am a knowing of nothing! Since my days in Europe I have asked many a monkey, of french descent, whom I know not the knowing of not the now knowing. AhA! what am I Irish?

Since this morning what I have to offer in this world other than thoughts, candied with anticipation. I CAN NOT EAT MY THOUGHTS! I drown in despair, frenchy and thorough with letters not needed.

Though the morning air was not pleasant, the 4th of Independence ruled my day. Shall I rue it in anticipation of the tyranny at hand? I am not a jew of choice, but a Jew of contradictorily independence, my words unconformable to my jewness.

Monkeys are flatulent... can you?

Pass gassy bills of dependence on independence please! They are restless and simian!

Oh happy day!

Quoth Janglestein

As I awoke this fourth of January morn, my heart sank with glee.

I speak, of course, of freedom.

FREEDOM -- свобода in the Russian tongue,. Tis the feeling that musters within my loins whenever I perchance a gander at mine nation. Tis the liquid that flows forth from my belly week after week, tis the digestive fluid of mine soul, eating away at the bars of establishment which I have swallowed.

FREEDOM. O! All negro slaves and busdriving cattle rejoice! Have you heard the news? The sky lights up with flames of jubilation, and my own intestines groan with a crescendoing pleasure just the same, as if each work of fire were combusting within my liquidy belly. With each series of blue and red lines painted in the night sky, joy bursts from every hole in my body like a geyser.

I am speaking, of course, of Pecan pie.







:-(

The Tremor Cometh

And so, incidentally, are the ravaged angels. You see, a purveyor of truth, knowledge, justice, peace, prosperity, hope, restfulness, hope (both unexpressed and otherwise), loyalty, and decay, such as myself, can not hope but pause and take brief notice of the tragedy that has befallen, not only our lovely (if not desolate) homeland but, in a manner of speaking, the entirety of the great race of noble savages which embodies the modernist spirit. By tragedy, of course, I am referring the the regrettable incident in which our own metaphorically gymnastic Cambrianites (though to call them such to their face would warrant much opposition, and rightly so I might add, but that is surely the fruit of another discussion at another time) have systematically opposed and oppressed (and hitherto driven a damn sight near annihilation) not only our own sight (for we see strongly in number, and stronger in isolation) but the very foundations of truth upon which we have founded ourselves. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Perhaps a backstory would be fitting.

For those unenlightened, it is important here to note that the Encyclopedian Uprising of the latter part of Tumultuous Decade (it is with much chagrin that I succumb to such troglodytic phrasing, but I feel that the most fitting terminology is that which our own counter-axial-culture has adopted) did not end with an assassination of enlightenment, though such an incident did undoubtedly take place on the infamous December morning, but continued throughout the annals of history and time in an unfitting and begrudgingly egalitarian manner until the present day. As such, our own values of truth and justice, which I unabashedly champion, have been under a three-pronged attack for the better part of this post-indentational period.

And so the present stand-still, where on one side you have the unequivocally masculine Higher Order, and on the other side you have the unbeknownst modern serfs, swarming in a sea of their own ignorance and destruction, which would undoubtedly lead to their own demise if unchecked but which they, as a genuinely misguided breed of antagonist, have failed to see.

But to state these things in such absolutist terms is a fallacy and a travesty on my behalf. I believe that with a clearer lens of truth we can melt through all forms of overlying conflict and see the heart of the matter: the golden olive branch of chastity has been rejected in exchange for the superficially analogous onion of celibacy, which has in turn become an idol of unexpected proportions and elevated to the status of oracle. To view the conflict from this perspective, it becomes a battle between Baruchianism and Post-Manicheanistic Duality, and is not so much a recent development as it is a vicious battle that has raged for centuries under the guise of civilization-building, conquest, and fine art. That every member of the general public is caught on one side or another, completely unaware of the odds they are at with half of the population, is tragic, and can only be fixed by modern enlightenment.

A proper deconstruction of recently lauded texts (even those disguised as fiction, for what is fiction but a level of abstraction separating the meat and bones of the author from ourselves?) reveals that the balance has hardly shifted, and this is to be expected: that such an ancient and ominous battle should meet its end in the present day is laughable on the surface and reaches in its core to pure temporal fallacy. The new is not new.

Gird yourselves.

Look henceforth towards the starry drawl

Such ignorance of Hamathel

and in a lost and battered maw

such hope is strewn towards blissful hell

- Moore, From Iron Night Stirred

A Gift for Daisy Nielson

Upon speaking with Nielstein and his lavish reptile Daisy, it is my grave duty to inform him that his picture was destroyed upon posting, and my gift rendered useless.

So I recreate it, in the off chance that his Pugnicity herself will enter into our midsts, see my humble offering, and wag his cloister in jubilation.

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