Hark! A Lark Doth Sit nExt to me...

Hark!

A lark sits next to the rubbery coils of a octopi that grasps so tenderly. What are they truly meant for?

she(herself) has a special kattarykittenesque that makes teh skins so comfy buy oh how the moon light makes shining segway across the body. I never understood this jewery tomfoolery! That.

Who are these cat attacks upon a scratching post that maul the blacker treat like he's worth the bite. I never got these optical spectaculars that my breaded cohorts engage with.

they pour molasses talk all over and I say fooey. A pox upon them I say. I care not what these watchmakers makes with the function of the times, events. I know not. not...

Who?

This is my command you readers. Thdingo knows certainty. certainty. certain.

Sixteen cadelabras

It was until my grandiose plan of apples completed prematurely that needles and the steel babies brought attention to my face discontent of the horrid casterburgers of france in which little child actors catch my inner child's attention with their larger child's grown up movie carriage shoppe.

Since when were apples cherries?! Curse their eyebuds!

I felt lone sem today upon my interaction variation distraction of minor prophets that spoke on the tele about the rain and diamonds. Their forcast... Un. acc. ceptatbleimo.

What does the world enter into when cats feed the feet of billions with orange creme? How dare they(you). I love pie.

Hark the pie bishop. There are many.

Peace and dutch be upon you internets...

~Quoth Bagelstein...

Drip Drop Drowzee Pants

The Pants...

these.

They melt, a penguin tux to ashes. Close.

Closed.

IfArtHadAYellowHatItWouldBeADelinquentRoseryOfCotton.

Randykins

Look at those stars. The Dormouse would look. I have looked upon occasion, preparing for preparatory participation in preliminary proctor parties, that these pants are drowzee. How drowzee.

In three days I flew a coup I will. There will be hangtime party at the institution of that name. I will rejoice and relax into oblivion. I will be blaze. Reading theology of the jewery.

Your Delicatessen...

fint

A pox upon the houses that spite the raisinette!

I hath shriveled most profusely, my condiments of glory, used up and replaced with empty plastic good fer nothin's. My cohort jangle, jingled his proud jangle at last, and heaved a heavy stout pickle.

it was salty as my tears. Our guise was revealed. my bruce wayne of sorts. our grapish ruse is but a raisin.

tasty raisins!

We were as millers, beering out philanthropy amoungst the webs, Though i a steward, watching the condor of gondor still wait for a next time to rally my vice once again...

adieu

The secret identity of trollpop...

tomfoolery to thou all!

The jewying delecetestant shalt not divy up such portions yet.

Our coming is nigh, repent the ways of internets. I shall bring you meals of foolery soon!

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