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zhinggibiisStatus: Member Country: Trinidad and Tobago Gender: Male Type of artist: chrome and leather, lots of leather, although more leather than chrome, if you know what I mean Registered: Mar 10, 2008 Last online: 16d ago |
Artworks: 6Scraps: 0 Favourites Given: 13 Favourites Received: 14 Stars Given: 2 Stars Received: 4 Comments Received: 72 Comments Given: 72 Postcount: 72 Pageviews: 124 |
Some of This, Some of That and CONTEST
Written by zhinggibiis
At Mar 28, 2008, 7:46:43 PM
For those discomboobilated about porn, join the discussion here: [link]
Something called "NaPo" happens April 1. That's where you write a poem every day for the entire month. People that do it aren't too bright. These are the same people, I think, who wake up one day after 30 years of sedentary decadence, and decide to run 80 miles every morning before a breakfast consisting of a tablespoon of granola and two raisins. I'm doing 1:30 NaPo. I'm committed to writing one poem in the month of April. That's a commitment even I could keep. Now that I think of it, though, maybe I shouldn't actually "commit" to it. Let's just say it's something I might do if I get around to it. Maybe. If not, there's always May, right?
In American politics, the Democratic presidential candidates are self-destructing. The Democrats have a long and hollowed tradition of shooting themselves. That leaves John McCain. John McCain is a legitimate Vietnam prisoner-of-war hero. He's also a blithering idiot, although not as stupid as George W. Nobody's as stupid as the Dauphin. Except maybe Condoleeza Rice, who has a proclivity to show off her Russian language skills while visiting Moscow, to the howls of derision by Muscovites who find her gibberish incomprehensible and hilarious. My prediction: McCain v. Hillary Clinton . McCain wins by a landslide after it's discovered Bill had an affair with Barbara Bush. You can take that to the bank.
150 Zhing points to anyone who can identify the language sung on this video of an adopted Moose who sleeps on the floor while watching TV and curls up in bed with his owners. It's driving me crazy. Some Nordic blue-eyed hardy race, methinks (it's not French. I can smell Francais a mile away, so don't even try that one): [link]
Mooses FTW!
ANNOUNCING THE ZHING BAD CRIT CONTEST!!!!!
That's right. BAD crit. Here's how it works. You (contestee) write a crit of the following poem. Make it bad. Really bad. If you don't know the difference between a good crit and a bad crit, you'll do just fine. Post it here in this journal thread. I (contester) will judge it based upon a very objective criteria: how hard I laugh.
What do you win?
I, Johnny Earle, will write you a poem on any subject you want. Wouldn't you love to be the main character in a heroic ballad? Get the girl (or guy)? Live happily ever after, healthy wealthy and wise, filthy rich? Of course you would!
In lieu of that fantastic gift, however, you can choose a lesser gift (likely chosen, I should think, by un-artistic noobs): A $15 gift-certificate to Amazon Books.
When does it begin?
Now.
When does it end?
April 30th, at midnight, GMT.
Here's the poem:
Longing
Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again.
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.
Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to others as to me.
Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,
Come now, and let me dream it truth.
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say My love! why sufferest thou?
Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again.
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.
--Mathew Arnold
they don't write 'em like they used to!
-JE
At Mar 28, 2008, 7:46:43 PM
Listening To: Squirrel Nut Zippers
For those discomboobilated about porn, join the discussion here: [link]
Something called "NaPo" happens April 1. That's where you write a poem every day for the entire month. People that do it aren't too bright. These are the same people, I think, who wake up one day after 30 years of sedentary decadence, and decide to run 80 miles every morning before a breakfast consisting of a tablespoon of granola and two raisins. I'm doing 1:30 NaPo. I'm committed to writing one poem in the month of April. That's a commitment even I could keep. Now that I think of it, though, maybe I shouldn't actually "commit" to it. Let's just say it's something I might do if I get around to it. Maybe. If not, there's always May, right?
In American politics, the Democratic presidential candidates are self-destructing. The Democrats have a long and hollowed tradition of shooting themselves. That leaves John McCain. John McCain is a legitimate Vietnam prisoner-of-war hero. He's also a blithering idiot, although not as stupid as George W. Nobody's as stupid as the Dauphin. Except maybe Condoleeza Rice, who has a proclivity to show off her Russian language skills while visiting Moscow, to the howls of derision by Muscovites who find her gibberish incomprehensible and hilarious. My prediction: McCain v. Hillary Clinton . McCain wins by a landslide after it's discovered Bill had an affair with Barbara Bush. You can take that to the bank.
150 Zhing points to anyone who can identify the language sung on this video of an adopted Moose who sleeps on the floor while watching TV and curls up in bed with his owners. It's driving me crazy. Some Nordic blue-eyed hardy race, methinks (it's not French. I can smell Francais a mile away, so don't even try that one): [link]
Mooses FTW!
ANNOUNCING THE ZHING BAD CRIT CONTEST!!!!!
That's right. BAD crit. Here's how it works. You (contestee) write a crit of the following poem. Make it bad. Really bad. If you don't know the difference between a good crit and a bad crit, you'll do just fine. Post it here in this journal thread. I (contester) will judge it based upon a very objective criteria: how hard I laugh.
What do you win?
I, Johnny Earle, will write you a poem on any subject you want. Wouldn't you love to be the main character in a heroic ballad? Get the girl (or guy)? Live happily ever after, healthy wealthy and wise, filthy rich? Of course you would!
In lieu of that fantastic gift, however, you can choose a lesser gift (likely chosen, I should think, by un-artistic noobs): A $15 gift-certificate to Amazon Books.
When does it begin?
Now.
When does it end?
April 30th, at midnight, GMT.
Here's the poem:
Longing
Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again.
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.
Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to others as to me.
Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,
Come now, and let me dream it truth.
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say My love! why sufferest thou?
Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again.
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.
--Mathew Arnold
they don't write 'em like they used to!
-JE
Hello, SN!
Written by zhinggibiis
At Mar 11, 2008, 8:16:04 AM
I'm new here.
Nice digs, really nice, you guys got. I could hang here, I think.
I don't mess with nobody if they don't mess with me. I try to be helpful by explaining why your writing sucks and mine is the tits.
I'm just a struggling putz of a hack-writer, minding his own sneaky business, cranking out a few reams of disingenuous pulp, doing his damndest to hump the lace thonged muse-butt, loving his paltry anonymity, and bent on simpering like a post-coitus, mangy mutt after two t-bones and a double helping of strawberry shortcake.
Gimme a cherry coke, Suzie's hand down my pants, a flash of polished chrome and the caress of top-line leather, and I'm a happy camper.
Nice to meetcha!
-Johnny Earle
At Mar 11, 2008, 8:16:04 AM
I'm new here.
Nice digs, really nice, you guys got. I could hang here, I think.
I don't mess with nobody if they don't mess with me. I try to be helpful by explaining why your writing sucks and mine is the tits.
I'm just a struggling putz of a hack-writer, minding his own sneaky business, cranking out a few reams of disingenuous pulp, doing his damndest to hump the lace thonged muse-butt, loving his paltry anonymity, and bent on simpering like a post-coitus, mangy mutt after two t-bones and a double helping of strawberry shortcake.
Gimme a cherry coke, Suzie's hand down my pants, a flash of polished chrome and the caress of top-line leather, and I'm a happy camper.
Nice to meetcha!
-Johnny Earle