A grey-haired, Hispanic-American fellow stepped from the entrance of the old schoolhouse and yelled out in the direction of the guard shack.
“Yo, Dog!” [Hey, Thomas!]
“Yo, Dog!” [Hey, Thomas!]
“You’s gots some muhfuka rap rod call’in!” [You’ve got a nice sounding, ‘ficken’ woman on the phone for you!]
“It’s fum one o’ yo' bitches.” [She says she's an old girlfriend].
“What in the world does ‘ficken’ mean? Is this another word substitution?”
It is! You must be one of those extraordinary people that slowly devours every word of a book; that is the only thing that could shed light on how you picked up on the subtle substitution.
“Ficken” is there for the slow reader, especially if they read out loud...and have “chillan.”
“Chillan?”
Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish for “children.” Time to spark things up a bit. Chillan [children] is self explanatory, but “ficken” needs to be expounded upon a bit.
“Ficken” is German for all made up tenses of the expression “ficken” including: ficken, fickening, ficken’in, fuked, muthafuka, muhfuka, so on and so forth, all rolled up into one tidy little word the “Word Nazis” won’t likely understand. So, instead of “ficken you” this book will use “ficken you”...all in the interest of maintaining a PG-13 Rating, of course.
Ficken is there, so if you must read out loud, you can do so in the privacy of your home, airport terminal, anywhere! That said, reading “out loud” suggests you could be a little dimwitted, and if so would mean your progeny will fit in perfectly with tomorrow’s American majority.
“Okay, I get it! I don’t read ‘out loud,’ so just move on already!”
All right, jeez…So, the security guard responded politely with, “Which muhfuka one be it dis time?” [Did she happen to say anything about when we might have last met?]
“Na, de rap rod only says ha' dojigger be Deltonia says she gocha a burfday pesant for chu, WORD!” [She says her name is Deltonia, says she has a birthday present for you, you lucky fool!]
The guard stepped out of the hut door while axing [questioning] himself, Debbieonia [Deltonia] Which one be the bitch [Which beautiful woman was she]? Oh, yea…fuk that hoe [Oh, now I remember…she’s the one who did not let me engage in sexual activities with her!]
The grey-haired man laughed at the younger fellow when he saw his puzzled look. The old ‘dog’ knew this cat was like so many his age, a regular Valentino who had knocked up so many bitches in his short, twenty-five years that he was forced into working.
The one thing that could take away one’s freedom and life of leisure in this “New, Future America” was being rewarded one too many times with an outcome from promiscuous activities. That magical number was six, six new additions to the welfare roles. Hey, even goofnads have to draw the line somewhere.
The old dog now yelled out, “Yo! Dog!” [Hey, Thomas!]
“Which one be she?” [Which one is she?]
“Foe, o’ five, o’ six?” [Four, or five, or six?]
The young guard replied politely, “None o' yo' bidness with muhafuka beeotch!” [None of your business my friend!]
“I ain’t got no worries.” [I’m running from half a dozen pregnant chicks; I only have this schiessen’y job and no wheels.]
“Okie dokie, I’ll be right thar! Fry mah hide!” [Okay, please tell her I’ll be right there, thank you! And quit chapping my ass]!”
Convinced the part-time, security guard had stood his ground on the obvious insult, the young man hastened off with a stiff to talk to his forth, fifth, or sixth love of his life...but...but the temporary, agency rent-a-cop did not close the door in his haste! Not completely!
Five minutes passed and the young man had not returned. Eight minutes passed and still he was nowhere to be seen. Ten minutes later and still no Thomas, but life in the courtyard just did not stop, owing to the fact that the young fellow went missing, no…life continued and the pinballs were still bumping into and bouncing off of sundry obstacles.
A wind was blowing, a sort of angelic breeze...
What’s this? Can’t be? The door that was ajar is now open...wide open!
It was exactly eleven minutes later when the first pinball strolled through the door accompanied by another, then one more.
What’s this? One more gust from that same heavenly breeze and...and the door...the door that was open was now closing shut!
Clump!
Inside the guard shack, confusion reigned. Picture, if you will, three near-comatose, crazy men in a five-foot by five-foot shed, each trying to walk in straight lines; running into each other again, and again...each continuing to try to march in straight lines over, and over...each time getting only a half-foot before running into each other, or one of the walls. Naturally one of the dipptards accidentally bumped into the “red button” that opened the front gate. The inmates in the yard may have been crazy; nevertheless, some of them recognized an opportunity when they saw it...in this case it was a chance to finally meet the neighbors!
Schwartz was one of those caught up in the bumbling rush and carried along with the herd of nuts out the gate to the noise of grunts, moans, farts and an occasional shout of joy. For five long minutes no one noticed the inmates escaping. As usual the sanitarium personnel were having their midday siesta and now...now the ignoramuses in the surrounding housing project were in for a real treat!
One of the crazy chaps inside the guard shack now backed into the same “red button” closing the front gate, stopping the rest of the two hundred, or so inmates from departing, keeping the appearances that all was normal, nothing had happened, and all was sterling.
Two hours later, the guard returned from a little afternoon ‘smash’ [sexual intercourse] with what turned out to be his neighbor’s wife. The security sentry would open the guard-shack door to find three patients locked in his hut, embracing one another from shear exhaustion, sweating, drooling, standing and reeking to high heaven, but nothing to let on that there had been a mass departure of mental patients out into the hinterland…a “Great Escape!”
-----
It was about an hour later that the married bus driver was busy talking with a ‘slutchops,’ a word combination derived from “slut” and “chops,” chops being common slang for “mouth.” Anyway, the slutchops just kept laughing while repeatedly saying, “You nasty,” which translated into, “I am intrigued by your proposition, but due to our current public setting I can't blow you right now.” Any way, the driver was too busy to take any notice of the half-clothed crazy folks aimlessly walking down the middle of the road before the bus scattered a half-a-dozen all over the place like bowling pins.
Schwartz had been one of those bowling pins, but the former whiz had been a lucky bowling pin. Tossed in the air, he landed hard facedown in a drainage ditch with a heavy thud.
Thud!
Half of the intellectual’s body from the waist down was lying in something resembling a pudding-like pudding that smelled like...like schiessen. The other half of him wound up landing on some dry, rank ground. The ‘professor’s body’ remained unmoving; nevertheless, miraculousness was taking place...a metamorphosis...a ‘moonbat butterfly’ was about to emerge! The academician would not realize it for a day, or more, but the bump on the noggin had awakened him from his deep, vegetative napping. After years of inactivity, the professor’s mind was beginning to show signs of life...his higher order intelligence was beginning to reemerge...the dignitary might soon be his old self once more!
Now the other patients struck by the passing motor coach, whose driver wisely decided not to stop, began picking themselves up. Unbelievably none appeared injured and like automatons, they continued their stroll along the highway unwittingly looking for the next opportunity to test the Quantum Mechanical Principle that no two objects can occupy the same space at the same time. But, enough about those dolts. What was the academic up to?<
br />
The ‘professor’s body’ mechanically pushed itself up onto its knees and into a kneeling position, mumbled something unintelligible and wiped away a bit of the brown muck that happened to splatter on its face. The professor was dazed, not easily making out anything clearly; judgment was a foggy mess; vision was blurred. The academician’s higher consciousness was still too far gone to notice what would have been an overwhelming stench emanating from his surroundings.
The academic spat out something distasteful then took a deep breath of the near-toxic air without any sign of noticing. The ground was slippery; nevertheless, the academic’s protoplasm took no notice. As the professor’s body tried to stand, it slipped and fell face first back into the mud-like cac for a facial. Mechanically, the intellectual went through a similar series of steps, first removing as best it could the gunge from its face, this time making sure the feet were planted on solid footing.
The professor’s body was quite a spectacle what with the brown slime covering him from noggin to toe; his gown untied in the back; wearing no underwear; and his white, shriveled-up, hairy ass sticking out the back for anyone to see. From the front the scholar looked like someone who might be taking a mud bath at a high-end resort, only the funky redolence put a quick end to that comparison.
It was kind of a warm summer day, and the air was ripe with the bouquet of the gully and by now the flies had discovered the professor’s body. The nice thing about strong sedatives was the way they could put you in an imaginary place thousands of miles away. The academician’s higher consciousness felt like it was floating above the landscape, unaware his physical body was standing ankle deep in something resembling a shallow cesspool. For the first time, however, in thirty years the genius was feeling the pleasant dullness that accompanied a massive dose of horse tranquilizers. Before the professor would have never noticed. Schwartz was, for all practical purposes, awake! The goofnad still needed a day or so to come down from his imaginary, drugged-out state, but he was truly on the road to becoming legitimately conscious. In the interim, it would be Schwartz’s primitive mind, the cerebellum, that would be in charge of things and running the show. The professor’s muddled understanding of his surroundings was like that of a papoose; an upswing over a carrot, or cabbage, nevertheless still needing some time to grow up.
In the academic’s whacked out state he thought the flies were hummingbirds, their buzzing like sweet music to his ears. If I did not already mention it, the professor often breathed through his mouth and was, therefore, a ‘mouth breather.’ For anyone who has ever had a bug accidentally fly into their mouths they know a little of what the academic was experiencing by this time, only we are talking serious numbers. Sad to say, after years of conditioning the genius’ primitive brain, the cerebellum, mindlessly responded the way it had for three decades. When something was put into the professor’s mouth, the primitive brain automatically had the intellectual’s protoplasm chew it up...and swallow!
God, I believe I’m going to throw up!
Momentary gagging noise…BLEEGH! BLEEGH!
All right, I’m back. The academic’s “little brain” thought the Old Hand was again talking, no whispering to it. A distant memory traveling through the dulled synapses of the higher to lower consciousness, or is it the reverse? Ah, who cares.
The memory of the Old Hand’s voice whispered, “Open wide Mo’on.”
The academic responded as it always had...you know we in point of fact should not be calling the reviving professor a normal person at this moment, not while his “low intelligence” was still running things. The real academic, his higher brain functions were still in the background playing with drugs not anywhere close to realizing what his “little brain” was doing with his body.
Like a human version of a Venus Flytrap, the body of the professor mechanically opened its mouth and waited, waited for something resembling that spoonful of...of porridge.
More gagging noises…BLEEGH! BLEEGH!
The cerebellum is truly like the brain of our distant, distant ancestors...when it came to eating things just about anything went. Scientists long ago discovered through archeological digs that there were only a handful of things primitive man would not eat: rocks, hair, wood, but flies...flies and animal droppings had not been some of them.
What’s worse, after years of poor dental hygiene, the former patient’s breath attracted flies and before long...you know I don’t believe there is any ‘goout’ reason to describe what happened for the next several hours...I don’t think I can take it.
“Are you adding a further new word into the mix, ‘goout’ instead of ‘good?’”
Well, yes, is there a problem?
“Well, no, not if I can get in on the fun.”
Sure, why not.
“Okay, from now on I want you to use ‘Ebongo-Edongo,’ instead of that idiotic sounding ‘Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish’ term.”
You want ‘Ebongo-Edongo’ to replace ‘Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish?’
“Uh huh.”
Yes, I think I can accommodate your request, or is this a demand?
“Consider it a stipulation.”
Fine, if that floats your boat. You do realize this means you’re going to have to hang around for the complete tale, don’t you?
“I’m what?”
Sure, how else will you know I’m sticking to our agreement; oh, and one more thing, you will probably become famous.
“Famous! That would be absolutely fantastic! Wait a minute, how would that be possible?”
I really haven’t got a clue, but it sounded goout [good].
“You’re an ass.”
Hey, you could become noteworthy, what if this book succeeds in becoming a “Hit?”
“That is probably like hitting the lottery, isn’t it?”
I’m just saying, the possibility exists...are you in?
“I don’t know, maybe.”
Come on, I agree with you in principle on ‘Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish,’ ‘Ebongo-Edongo’ sounds a lot better.
“Yes, and it’s a lot less of a tongue twister than Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish, which also takes half an hour to say.”
How would you pronounce it?
“My guess would be: ē-boNG-gō, ē-doNG-gō.”
The only problem is I’m not sure what the writer would say to changing a key term in his novel.
“Schiessen, if the author can make up expressions then you and I should have the same right starting with ‘Ebongo-Edongo.’ What do you say to that?”
In theory, I’d say you’re right. Everyone in the country will be making up expressions, so why can’t the two of us?
“Sure, just use the ‘presumptive close’ on the author and start using ‘Ebongo-Edongo’ from this time going forward.”
Presumptive close?
“Yes, assume that the novelist has already agreed to using ‘Ebongo-Edongo,’ or any other new fangled term we might dream up, and just carry on as if nothing has changed.”
Okay, I buy that. The writer isn’t the sharpest knife in the kitchen. That guy probably won’t even notice. Look, if you and I are going to do this thing there are some guidelines for making up words.
“Okay, shoot.”
The most important thing to understand when coming up with new Ebangish…I mean Ebongo-Edongo expressions are they must be easy on the tongue, whatever that means, fun, creative and save time when spoken.
“So, the expressions need to be shorter and slippyer?”
I guess so, but look, before we go off “half cocked” I know there are definitely some ground rules. We really need to adhere to those unspoken canons, otherwise, you and I could be wasting our time...nobody from the future will use them. Regrettably, I don’t know any of the tenants, which means I’m going to have to get the novelist involved. I’m simply a figment of the writer’s imagination. He is the one making all this stuff up.
“Is the author around?”
; I don’t know. Let me go find out.
“Hey, wait a moment! Don’t forget ‘Ebongo-Edongo’ and the presumptive close.”
No, I won’t. I’ve got it.
The noise of the narrator’s footsteps moving off into the background…
Thump, tap, thump, tap, thump…tap…
The voice of the raconteur can be heard in the background.
Frank…
Oh, Frankie…
Still no answer!
Pssst...[Narrator]
“What do you want?”
The author has locked the door. He doesn’t know I’ve made a copy of the key before this whole narrative thing got started.
The noise of the deadlock makes a click as the narrator turns the key.
Click
The creaking sound of the door opening accompanied by what sounds like a human buzz-saw suddenly comes to ear.
Zzz...Snort!...
Zzz...Snort!...Snort!
Is that someone snoring?
Zzz...Snort!...
Damn, that novelist sounds like a chain saw...running out of gas.
Zzz...Snort!..Snort!
Nothing can be heard of the narrator, just that loud obnoxious, buzz-saw racket. Soon, however, you hear the barely audible sound of approaching, angry footsteps.
Thumpity…tapity, thumpity, tappity, thump, tap!
The narrator has to shout to be heard.
Damn it, this has got to stop! Do you hear that? That’s the writer making a fool of himself once more! Unbelievable, I’ve had just about enough of this bull schiessen!
The commotion continues unabated in the background.
Zzz...Snort!...Snort!
The narrator shouts to be heard, again.
Watch this, I’m going to go have some fun at the novelist’s expense. The author just loves unions.
“Okay, but speak up. I can barely hear anything with that infernal hullabaloo.”
Zzz...Snort!...
The yarn spinner shouts back: Now you see what I have to deal with every night. It is impossible to get any winks with this guy around.
Now, you barely hear the stomping of the narrator’s angry footsteps moving off…
Thump, tap, thump, tap, thump…tap…
Soon, those footsteps were utterly drowned out by the sound of the wheeze-bag.
Zzz...Snort!...Snort!
That’s it! I’m quitting! [Narrator]
It is to no avail...
Zzz...Snort!...Snort!
The yarn spinner can be heard nearly screaming, “I’m quitting, damn it!”
Snort!...snort...“Huh?”
Suddenly, silence descends upon the scene. Your ears are still ringing, but just then you hear the chronicler cut the air with, “That’s it, I’m quitting damn you!”
The groggy voice of the author can now be heard responding, “What...what the infernos is going on?”
I said I’m quitting...
A groggy voice replies, “You...you can’t quit! You’re under contract!”
Oh, indeed...aren’t you forgetting one thing?
“Am I, what?”
Aren’t you forgetting I belong to the Narrators Union of Socialist Democracies of the Free Socialists’ World.
“Well, no I haven’t forgotten that,” responds Mr. Frank with drowsiness still in his words.
Then you’ll remember the part of that contract called the “Discrimination Clause.”
“That contract is over three thousand pages long!”
Well, let me remind you of what that clause states and I quote, “If the said union member...” that’s me, “of this said contract finds he, she, or it believes they are being intentionally, or unintentionally discriminated against...” I’ll skip some of the legal mumbo-jumbo, “...has the right to enter out of said contract.”
“I don’t believe this? How are you being discriminated against?”
If you honestly don’t know then I’m absolutely certain I’ve got to get the union attorneys involved.
“What the f@#&!?” responds the novelist with some fear in his voice.
Goout, that guy deserves a little scare.
I’m sure this is going to have to go to arbitration.
“Arbitration! Look, we should be able to work this out. What’s your grievance anyway?”
My problem is, lately, you’re not only napping at the oddest times of the day, but also snoring like Godzilla, and it always seems to happen whenever the person reading your novel, or I have a question.
“This is getting a little ridiculous; the ‘whole shebang’ is written down, and as for my being in the Land of Nod, I have tried and not found anything to stop my minor, sleep disorder!”
“Look, I don’t mean to interrupt you and the author, but is this going to take long? I need to go do something.”
Sure...go ahead. [Narrator]
“Sure...go ahead,” the novelist, also responds.
“All right, be right back.”
There is a moment of silence before the author picks up the conversation again with a possible solution.
“Okay...okay...what if I promise to stay awake, would that work?”
Ummmm...Seems to me you already broke that promise.
“Look here, I’m a freelance ‘want to be’ writer, not some union drone who can get away with working six-hour days and retire at fifty...so give me a break.”
Are you done insulting me?
The noise of a flushing toilet…
Blooshchchch...ROOOOOOOOOOOOOR...growl...
A few moments pass, while both the narrator and novelist try to figure out what that sudden noise might have been.
“Okay, I’m back. Have I missed anything?”
What was that noise? Are you reading this in the library (man-code for bathroom)?
“I know what you mean and it’s none of your business.”
Jeez, okay, sorry for being curious.
“Where are we?”
The author is just about to apologize for making a derogatory comment about me and my union.
“Now wait a minute!”
Ar...bi...tra...tion...
“Okay...okay, I get it. I’m sorry for calling you and your union mean things.”
And...you pledge to quit the daytime naps and that god-awful snoring, at least up to the time I’m finished narrating this series, serial whatever?
“All right,” responds the writer with despondency in his voice.
...and lose twenty...or is it twenty-five pounds?
“It’s twenty-five....Oh, and studies by a consensus of scientists have concluded that being overweight contributes to sleep disorders, like snoring!”
What do you say to that?
“Okay, I’ll go on a diet, too,” responds the novelist with dejection in his voice.
Pinky Promise?
“Ficken, okay....I pinky promise,” the author reluctantly responds.
Laughter erupts...at least from the yarn spinner...
Ha...ha...ho...ho...
...Hey Frankie, I was just kidding.
Huh? “Why, you ficken asshole!” responds the author, anger in his voice.
Sure, it was all just a gag!
More laughter...once more only from the teller of tales...
Ho...ho...ha...ha...
Seriously, napping on the job does not help the thrust of this book any. What’s a person to conclude?
“That I’m a middle-age fart who needs his naps! Look, you’re getting compensated to do this bit...”
I’m what?...That certainly is news to me!
“Okay, maybe not compensated in the normal sense of the word; nevertheless, let’s face it, what else would you be doing?”
Ha!
There is a pause for reflection on the part of the yarn spinner.
Oh, I see your point. You do raise a goout issue.
“Damn right I raise a goout issue! Now unless you want to go to ‘sleep with the fishes,’ I suggest you
keep to entertaining ‘the reader’ when I’m out in dreamland. By the way, that’s when most of my grandiose ideas come to me.”
How will we know when you’re sleeping?
“You’ll hear me breathing loudly, of course!”
Wow, I never thought of that!
“That’s because you don’t think; I’m the one that’s doing the thinking. You’re just a talking-head like a news anchor...or the “Forever President.” Just stay to the script with your moron ‘cue cards,’ teleprompter, or whatever it is that you’re using and...and if you hear some heavy breathing then it’s not a acceptable time to ask, I mean axe questions.”
I’m curious, is your wife still forcing you to sleep in the guest room?
“That is none of your business...and yes, it is either that, or she wants a divorce. Okay, enough of this. What’s the question?”
It is from the reader.
“Well, let’s go see the person. Wait a second, how did you get into this room? The door was locked.”
If I told you...I’d have to kill you.
“Ha, so you made a duplicate key! Darn if I haven’t made you a little too smart for your britches. Now, give me that copy!”
Which one?
“What are you talking about?”
I made a hundred copies and they’re scattered all over the place.
“Schiessen, what in tarnation is wrong with you?”
You tell me.
The novelist ponders the narrator’s comments without, at first, speaking his mind. OCD...Yes, it’s got to be Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. That’s the only thing that could explain the narrator’s compulsive behavior. That mental condition runs in the family. Apparently, the storyteller has got the gene. If I take back all those door-lock keys, that fruit will just end up making a further hundred copies, or worse, a thousand duplicates. This is a lost cause.
“All right, keep the keys damn it. Just do me one favor, knock first!”
We’ll see, now let’s get going. The reader is waiting.
Noise of approaching, shuffling footsteps, Thumpity…tapity, thummpity, tappity, thump, tap.
The footsteps come to a halt accompanied by the author’s voice axing, “What’s your question mister, misses, or miss ‘reader?’”
“Well, I thought it would be fun to make up some new expressions.”
“Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish expressions?” axe’d the novelist with sudden enthusiasm resonating in his voice.
I forgot to mention ‘the reader’ has informed me specifically Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish must be changed to Ebongo-Edongo going forthwith.
The chicken-schiessen! He’s too scared to use the ‘presumptive close.’
The reasons are perfectly rational; this pronunciation not only sounds better, the term is a lot less of a tongue twister and does not take half an hour to say.
Hmmm…
“‘Ebongo-Edongo.’ Say, it does have a nice ring to it,” replies the novelist. “How would you pronounce it?”
“I’m guessing ē-boNG-gō, ē-doNG-gō.”
“I can see the reader’s point,” concedes the novelist. “Okay...I can work with that.”
Excellent, now can we move on?
“Sure,” responds the author followed by, “wow you, the reader, must be getting into this book, I mean ‘serial novel.’ That’s great to hear, words it is then. As the narrator probably already mentioned, there are a few ground rules for creating terms in Ebangish...I mean Ebongo-Edongo. For one, expressions and sentence structure are constantly in a state of flux, constantly evolving, often multiple times within just one generation of Americans.”
“The guidelines transform?”
“Sure they do, just take a look at the evolution of one of the more popular dialects used by the African American community. This dialect has gone through several evolutionary, dialectal steps including the 'Black Power’ variation of the late 60’s, early 70’s; the disco variation of the late 70’s, early 80’s; so on and so forth…up to the present variation: Hip-Hop, Gangsta, Rap’in, Hoodee’ville. We will be focusing on the present dialects for the guidelines.”
What are your thoughts reader?
“Sounds logical to me. Let’s roll with the Hip-Hop, Gangsta, Rap’in, Hoodee’ville.”
“Goout, first, it is important to note that expressions have meaning, often subtle, but highly revealing. One of the great things about the way the future dialects are spoken are the way each new word just kind of slides off the tongue. Most are, and correctly so, abbreviated from their distant cousins in the interest of saving time. Most completely drop any association to ‘linking verbs’ in conversation.”
“Linking verbs? What are linking verbs?”
“Terms like ‘is’ and ‘are,’ ‘was,’ or ‘were.’”
“Can you give me an example?”
“Okay, let’s look at the simple sentence, ‘The dog is running after the cat.’
Now, let’s look at that same expression in Ebongo-Edongo...you know, I think I’m going to really like using that term instead of Ebanglish-Edangish-Egangish. Seems to slide more easily off the tongue. Say, that nomenclature isn’t copyrighted by you is it?”
“No, it is all yours. Think of it as my contribution to this...this serial novel.”
“Thank you, very much. Narrator, I want you to take really blue-chip care of this person. Who knows, he or she may become part of the script before it is all over. All right, back to the linking verbs and some of the other, subtle differences in language between here and 2050.”
“‘Is’ is a linking verb, so it is dumped leaving us with the sentence: ‘The dog running after the cat.’”
“Schiessen, I forgot that words ending in ‘er’ have the ‘er’ dropped off, too! They’re replaced by ‘ah.’ So, instead of, ‘The dog is running after the cat,’ the equivalent is, ‘the dog running aft-ah the cat.’”
The novelist was not yet finished making omissions.
“Cac, I seem to have also overlooked the fact that the ‘th’ is also replaced by the letter ‘t,’ that is unless the ‘t’ is the first letter of the word. If that is the case then the ‘t’ becomes ‘de.’”
“All right, let me give this one last shot. The expression, ‘The dog is running after the cat’ becomes the expression, ‘De dog running aft-ah de cat.’
“Have I missed anything?”
The narrator spots a flaw and now mentions it.
I thought ‘ing’ had to be replaced by ‘in?’
“Holly Jehoshaphat! How could I have missed that! The narrator is absolutely right, ‘ing’ is always replaced with ‘in.’ Goddamnit, now I think I’ve finally got this damn sentence figured out...‘De dog run’in aft-ah de cat!’ Damn it, I finally got the goddamn sentence right!”
“I don’t want to bust anyone’s bubble, but aren’t disparaging remarks supposed to be liberally used, as well?”
The writer, frustrated with the whole affair, looks as if he’s about to blow his top, spittles the final product. “Oh, so you want some curse words thrown in for some impact, do you? Try this on for size...”
“De muhfuka mutt run’in aft-ah de muhfuka cat!”
The narrator, concerned over the author’s high blood pressure decides to try to calm him down a bit with...
Look here, I’m on your side Franklin; nevertheless, I was under the notion this newfangled language was supposed to be easy, even mindless. This appears to be anything but the case. I mean if you, the author, is having trouble cracking the code, think of what a layperson like the reader must be thinking.
“It is frustrating, but I blame my mistakes on a lack of practice. It’s not like I use these dialects on a day-to-day basis. I suppose, if forced to, I could interact with more Democrat voters...some of them are not too far off the mark of speaking in the future, wonderful dialect, today. I suppose even regular discourse would improve my writing capabilities.”
I’m not s
ure about that last point. Anyhow, aren’t we twenty or thirty years away from being forced to understand this piffle?
“You’re right and make a very goout [good] point. I, which consequently means you, probably won’t even live that long...well, thirty-plus years out. In that time, as the transition gets underway, there will be plenty of time to pluck and mentally pocket all the subtleties that agree with these new, wondrous, wonderful dialects. Until then, I would recommend you and I not sweat it.”
What about ‘the reader?’ What’s going to happen to him, her, or it?
“I’m not quite sure at the moment. Let me give that some thought.”
“Hey, you guys know I’m sitting right here listening to you two talk about me, right?”
Yes, of course we do.
“Well, then shut up and move on!”
I think that’s your cue mister novelist.
The author, who might be losing a bit of his memory with age, has to pause a moment. “I have almost forgotten what we were discussing. Let me see. Oh, yes! Now I remember. Speed of delivery, easiness on the tongue...whatever that means, are genuinely important ideas, especially when you consider the early days of the gobbledygook, when hightailing it from Five-O (the police) meant you only had seconds to convey your verbal warnings. You, the reader, should keep this in mind as we go through just a few of the guidelines for your word creation activity.”
“Second, as we learned above in the dog-cat example, terms beginning in ‘th’ need to end with either a ‘t,’ or ‘d’ with one caveat. If ‘th’ is spoken then it should resonate like ‘de’ versus the sound you get when you say the word ‘the.’”
“Now if you’re not verbalizing an expression, but aiming to write something down like the word ‘think,’ the transformation is straightforward whereby you simply replace the ‘th’ with ‘t’ which would become ‘tink.’ Notice that ‘tink’ is not only shorter, it also slides more easily off the tongue and is more fun to say.”
“Note the straightforwardness of this alternating pronunciation. The distinction within Ebongo-Edongo dialects resides in how English orthography becomes hidden. For example, ‘th’ in English could be either written, or spoken; nevertheless, only using the ‘t’ when written, and ‘d’ when spoken. In Ebongo-Edongo, any idiomatic jargon, we see the ‘th’ replaced by just one letter, the ‘t.’”
What the ficken is this guy talking about? This is absolutely absurd spittle!
The novelist continues with his diatribe. “So, you won’t have the confusion surrounding the original English expressions when ‘th’ is either spoken, or written...exciting, right?”
The sound of the cricketing of crickets can be heard in the background...
“One other thing about these dialects to consider: the written ‘th,’ or ‘oth’ can become an ‘f’ when it is spoken, or a ‘uv,’ or ‘u’ accompanied by a couple of ‘“v’s” in the final, or medial position of a word like ‘brother’ becoming ‘bruvvah,’ once more depending on the spoken, or written nature of the English implantation of ‘th.’”
The novelist pauses for a moment to collect his thoughts before continuing. The novelist is too busy shooting his mouth off to hear...
The noise of a shake blender in the background...
Burrrr....burrr....burrrrrrr....
“In most future dialects you also need to delete postvocalic letters in expressions that are either spoken or written. For example, ‘before’ has the ‘re’ removed becoming ‘befo.’ ‘Carol’ has the ‘r’ removed to become ‘Ca’ol.’”
“When creating your new vocabulary you genuinely need to recognize that the letter combination ‘er’ is absolutely frowned upon. The combination ‘er’ does not easily slide off the tongue and is, consequently, not fun. All this to say ‘er’ should be replaced by the letters ‘ah’ whenever ‘er’ is spotted. For example, ‘over’ becomes ‘ovah.’”
The noise of someone vacuuming can be heard in the background...
Vrrooommm...vrrooommm...vrrooommm
“Also, your expressions should be shortened if possible like ‘hood’ instead of ‘neighborhood.’ Words that end in ‘oor’ should be adjusted to ‘oh’; terms ending with ‘ing’ should be transformed to ‘in’ and expressions that are next to each other in a sentence...well, they can be combined into one word. Do you want to discuss ‘sentence structure’ at this time?”
Vrrooommm...vrrooommm...vrrooommm
“What about sentence structure?”
Vrrooommm...vrrooommm...Silence...
“Hello! Is anyone there?”
What sounds like the phone being bobbled...
Clump...ti...ti...clump...
Yes, we’re here. [Narrator]
“Does ‘the reader’ want to discuss ‘sentence structure’ at this moment?”
No, please no sentence structure...please! [Narrator]
Silence...
I believe that’s your cue mister, miss, or misses ‘reader.’
The noise of another toilet flushing...
Blooshchchch...ROOOOOOOOOOOOOR...growl...
Gee whiz, has this dude, or gal got bowel problems? That’s the second time in less than five minutes.
What sounds like another phone being bobbled...
Clump...ti...ti...clump...
“Sorry, I missed that last part.”
“Do we need to investigate sentence structure and things like non-conjugating verbs?” aks the author.
Please say no!
“Can you give me another example?”
“Sure, non-conjugating verbs are word combinations that are grammatically incorrect like: ‘I be’ instead of ‘I am,’ ‘she be’ instead of ‘she is,’ or ‘she was’ and ‘thems be’ instead of ‘they are.’”
“I have absolutely ‘No’ interest.”
Thank God!
You heard ‘the reader’...absolutely no interest, Franklin.
“Well, okay then...that should give you enough to get you started, is there anything else narrator?”
No, nothing else. Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.
“Oh, glad I could help. Call me if you need me, unless you hear someone snoring.”
A nervous cough...
Oh...I will, you can count on it.
“Okay, goodbye then.”
Silence...
More silence...
“Is the novelist guy gone?”
I believe so.
“God, I didn’t think he’d ever shut his ‘pie hole.’ Look do me a favor, if you want me to keep reading this...this...what is this?”
Humorous satire?
“Fine, if you want me to keep reading this ‘humorous satire,’ don’t...I repeat don’t ask the author for any more help. If you don’t have the answers just say so...okay?”
You don’t have to tell me twice. Should we get back to the story?
“I’m not sure...”
We’re getting to the fab part...wait, do you want to make up any new terms?
“Shit, I mean schiessen, no! Blast, just get on with the story!”
Fine, then call to mind that the faculty member’s higher consciousness was still in ‘La La Land’ and the low-level grey matter was still running things. Through years of stimuli and reward, the primitive brain responded to certain prodding including the voice of the ‘Old Hand’ back at Grey Hall. The cerebrum believes the Old Hand was continuing to whisper to it, a memory that manages to slip through the drug-frozen synapses.
The Old Hand whispers, “Okay, now chew it down real fine.”
The jaw muscles dutifully responded with the correct action munching up the small ‘Musca Domestica’ then swallowing after a time.
Oh my God, the Old Hand’s voice has whispered something again!
“Ready fo' t'other spoonful, Bic?”
How long the body of the professor stood there eating flies was anyone’s guess. All I know is following this kind of absurd behavior c
an’t help except detract from your opinion of the main character, so let us fast forward a bit.
“Wait, what...what did the academician think for the taste of flies?”
Right now, the academic could not tell us if he wanted to, the normal person, the higher consciousness did not even know he was eating flies, never mind what they tasted like. We will have to wait for that answer once Schwartz admittedly wakes up.
Rude Awakening