Bart Allen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
backinakidflash) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tushanshu2014-03-20 09:53 am
backinakidflash) wrote in tushanshu2014-03-20 09:53 am
Video; take the big game down
[It's been some time since Bart has graced the Network with a post. After Tim left the first time, that had been a miserable one to make. The shine is definitely gone like the cheap, shiny (lead-filled) paint on a kids meal toy.]
You know what is one of THE most annoying short story I've ever read? Hills Like White Elephants. Cause like. The Lottery was a trainwreck of stupid and gross, the one where that girl got shot out of the airlock was tragic, Super-Toys Last All Summer Long, All in a Summer Day - they're all about the worst of humanity, and I get that.
[It's strange how he has a hard time coming up with a short story that wasn't A huge downer, but, since he's venting, he doesn't pause the fast-paced, near breathless delivery to muse on it for long.]
But Hills Like White Elephants, man. It's four pages of doing nothing but waiting for this couple to stop dancing around the topic and complaining that everything tastes like licorice. Like that's a bad thing. I'd cut off my arm for a twizzler. All right not the whole arm, but me and my pinkie have never been on the best of terms. Twizzlers are nature's straws. And that's how they go. On and on. For pages of nothing that dance around everything and you just want to shout at them to freaking say it already because the rampant silence is killing her and the incessant chatter is putting him off. But on the other hand, who cares about him? He's a scumbag, and I hope that - in the fiction of Hemingway's - she grew a spine and dumped his fatass and ran off to run a tourist bar in Borneo. Because he was freaking selfish.
[He shrugs at this terrible understatement. 'Shithead' would be better, or reprehensible dickwad, but this isn't actually a symposium on the works of Ernest Hemingway. It just seemed like the best way to bring up how there were so many things, including Malicant, that no one talked about directly. Talk about white elephants by bringing up the story where they talk about white elephants to ignore the white elephants.]
So, yeah. Most annoying four pages I've ever read, and that's not counting all the essays analyzing it. Half of them were longer than the story! That is what happens when you hafta keep avoiding a topic. The coding and decoding detour takes way longer than flat out talking about it ever could, and. Let's be real. Not talking about things is halfway to lying, and oh-what-a-tangled-web hasn't stuck around for two centuries because Marmion is such a gripping read. Ohgoditreallyisn't. Why am I talking about Walter Scott?
[He actually stops here, scratching behind his ear for a moment until the tangent becomes a parabola and re-intersects with the original topic.]
Ugh, right. Hemingway. Things snowball. Before you know it, you're in an entire room full of white elephants, crowding out all the oxygen, and you can't turn around without face planting in saggy gray butt. Names that you shouldn't say, that you can't say, things you don't want to say cause you'll upset someone else or you, or piss them off and. It's turning every conversation into "Oh. We're talking about that now? OK."
ALL of it could be avoided if people just said what was on their mind because decades of watching what I say is getting old. I can't take it. I'm not wired for patient and subtle. I'm gonna be the first Allen in four generations to get gray hair. Because all I can do is sit here like -
[He jumps to his feet dramatically, pointing off in the distance.] "What in the world could that be?"
[And sits back firmly, as if it's possible to sit down resolutely with enough speed and force. Bart slaps a hand on the desk for good measure.] IT'S A WHITE ELEPHANT. It sucks.
And so does Hemingway.
You know what is one of THE most annoying short story I've ever read? Hills Like White Elephants. Cause like. The Lottery was a trainwreck of stupid and gross, the one where that girl got shot out of the airlock was tragic, Super-Toys Last All Summer Long, All in a Summer Day - they're all about the worst of humanity, and I get that.
[It's strange how he has a hard time coming up with a short story that wasn't A huge downer, but, since he's venting, he doesn't pause the fast-paced, near breathless delivery to muse on it for long.]
But Hills Like White Elephants, man. It's four pages of doing nothing but waiting for this couple to stop dancing around the topic and complaining that everything tastes like licorice. Like that's a bad thing. I'd cut off my arm for a twizzler. All right not the whole arm, but me and my pinkie have never been on the best of terms. Twizzlers are nature's straws. And that's how they go. On and on. For pages of nothing that dance around everything and you just want to shout at them to freaking say it already because the rampant silence is killing her and the incessant chatter is putting him off. But on the other hand, who cares about him? He's a scumbag, and I hope that - in the fiction of Hemingway's - she grew a spine and dumped his fatass and ran off to run a tourist bar in Borneo. Because he was freaking selfish.
[He shrugs at this terrible understatement. 'Shithead' would be better, or reprehensible dickwad, but this isn't actually a symposium on the works of Ernest Hemingway. It just seemed like the best way to bring up how there were so many things, including Malicant, that no one talked about directly. Talk about white elephants by bringing up the story where they talk about white elephants to ignore the white elephants.]
So, yeah. Most annoying four pages I've ever read, and that's not counting all the essays analyzing it. Half of them were longer than the story! That is what happens when you hafta keep avoiding a topic. The coding and decoding detour takes way longer than flat out talking about it ever could, and. Let's be real. Not talking about things is halfway to lying, and oh-what-a-tangled-web hasn't stuck around for two centuries because Marmion is such a gripping read. Ohgoditreallyisn't. Why am I talking about Walter Scott?
[He actually stops here, scratching behind his ear for a moment until the tangent becomes a parabola and re-intersects with the original topic.]
Ugh, right. Hemingway. Things snowball. Before you know it, you're in an entire room full of white elephants, crowding out all the oxygen, and you can't turn around without face planting in saggy gray butt. Names that you shouldn't say, that you can't say, things you don't want to say cause you'll upset someone else or you, or piss them off and. It's turning every conversation into "Oh. We're talking about that now? OK."
ALL of it could be avoided if people just said what was on their mind because decades of watching what I say is getting old. I can't take it. I'm not wired for patient and subtle. I'm gonna be the first Allen in four generations to get gray hair. Because all I can do is sit here like -
[He jumps to his feet dramatically, pointing off in the distance.] "What in the world could that be?"
[And sits back firmly, as if it's possible to sit down resolutely with enough speed and force. Bart slaps a hand on the desk for good measure.] IT'S A WHITE ELEPHANT. It sucks.
And so does Hemingway.