morph-a-meme-o-matic

[arguchik]

i think glaucon's morph of a meme that boutell posted was funny, so i'm going to do it.

here it is:

morphmeme
Meme: Reply to this post, and I will make up a ridiculous lie about you. Maybe more than one. Then repost to your own journal and spread some rumors.

(i feel kinda dumb now, because the rain has receded to a walkable rate. i'm willing to bet there's more on the way, though, and there's no way i could get to the workshop on time now. i have plenty of other work to do this afternoon anyway.)

Comments

[bcstillman.livejournal.com]

If you can somehow involve Karen Finneyfrock in the lie I'd be in debt.

[arguchik.livejournal.com]

bcstillman has a problem. karen finneyfrock, to be precise. she's stalking him. she saw him in the audience one day while she was giving a reading, and his rapt, attentive, appreciative gaze made her feel like her poetry was finally getting through to someone. sadly for her, bcstillman had wandered into the reading by mistake. his oral surgeon's office was right next door to the bookstore. he had just had some massive dental work done, and was looking for a place to sit down while the novocaine and sodium pentothal wore off. his "rapt, attentive, appreciative" gaze was nothing more than a drug-induced torpor.

but karen finneyfrock didn't know that. she asked around. she figured out who bcstillman was, where he lived, where he worked, how he liked his coffee. she started showing up at the back door to the bookstore where bcstillman worked, and would stand there for an hour or more waiting for him to come to the door to sign for a UPS delivery. when he'd appear, she would hold out a thermos of coffee in her mittened hands, shivering in the cold january drizzle. the first time this happened, bcstillman was touched. the coffee was good, exactly how he liked it. after awhile, though, he became more and more annoyed, and started sending a coworker to the back door to sign for packages. not to be dissuaded, karen finneyfrock began leaving poems under the wiper blades of his car. love poems. bad ones. odes to his glasses. to his management skills. to his attentive gaze at her reading.

finally, bcstillman had had enough. he wasn't sure how, but he just had to get this chick off his back. he tried talking to the police, but they only laughed at him. he tried submitting an "i, anonymous" rant to the stranger, but that only flattered her more. hmm...flattery; poets and flattery... he suddenly realized what he should do.

so, he found out when her next reading would be, and he plotted and schemed. for three nights beforehand, he did everything he could to avoid falling asleep. finally, the evening of the reading arrived, and he showed up, took a seat front and center, and launched his failsafe plan by popping a benadryl. karen finneyfrock read her first poem. bcstillman gazed up at her. she blushed, flattered. she read her second poem. bcstillman continued to gaze at her. she smiled. then, when she started reading her third poem, bcstillman's mind wandered, his eyes grew heavy. he stretched and yawned. karen finneyfrock allowed a small frown to crease her brow. halfway through the poem, bcstillman began to nod off. karen finneyfrock was furious. the nerve! but she continued to read. bcstillman, oblivious, began to dream. his body sagged in the chair, and his muscles twitched. he snored. he drooled. he talked in his sleep, shouted! the person next to him jabbed him with an elbow, to no avail. he slept on.

when he finally woke, the room was deserted except for the janitor who was sweeping the floor. there was a note pinned to his chest. to this day, bcstillman won't tell anyone what it said. he keeps it tucked into a secret pocket of his wallet, and whenever anyone asks him to "tell that story about karen finneyfrock," he simply smiles a secret smile, then changes the subject.

[arguchik.livejournal.com]

please excuse the verb tense inconsistencies...