001 - A Tale of Hats
Publiseringsdato: 14.feb.2014 17:10:53
I wrote a story at school today, February 14th, 2014, based on the principles of “just write”, “don’t look too far ahead” and “no major changes to the past”, taking my Norwegian text book’s advice to "just write" and worry about wording and grammar later (in order to avoid hindering the creativity) to an extreme. The result was this story, characterized by crazy things made up on the spot leading the, um, ‘plot’ in various odd directions. I’m surprised I managed to keep it at least somewhat coherent. Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
- Krixwell
Bla-bl-bla-blargh-bla.
"A Tale of Hats" by Krixwell
Once upon a time there was a random story. It happened on a Tuesday in a galaxy far, far away... that didn't really have Tuesdays. The residents of the galaxy typically skipped Tuesday in favor of Wednesday, because they didn't want to wear hats.
But one Wednesday, it was Tuesday.
This was seen by the residents of the galaxy as a major act of terror by hidden pro-hat extremists. So King Juicemug the Blargh, his byname coming from the word «blargh» being an adjective in Common Residential meaning «apple-hating» despite apples not existing in this galaxy, spoke to his wife, queen Petunia the Dursley.
«We need to find a way to stop these pro-hat extremists before it's too late!» he told his wife. The Queen didn't understand a single word, because she didn't speak English. Neither did the King, of course; he had been speaking Spanish. However, the Queen heard it as German, which is why she didn't understand any of the King's Norwegian. It didn't really matter, though, because suddenly the random story switched focus, in order to follow a young human in a completely different galaxy where it was currently Thursday.
However, that shift in focus proved unsuccessful, because due to special relativity, quantum mechanics, radiation and a kitten, it turned out to be Friday in this other galaxy. In a desperate move, the story shifted instead to a Galactic-Residential farmer with an incredible moustache that likely won't be mentioned after this sentence.
«Blargh,» said the farmer. «Blargh, blargh, blargh. Blargh bla-blargh, blar.»
Hey, nobody said the farmer could speak English or that his language would be translated. Really, Uncommon Residential is way too hard to translate. Those sentences could mean anything from «Hi. I've eaten a cow. My stomach is killing me.» to «Pencil. Are there any apples left? I hate writing desks and wish a raven would eat all of them, despite this galaxy having no creature even remotely similar to a raven.» You expected me to translate a language like that for you? Think again. Maybe a few phrases, tops.
«Blargh,» the farmer said politely as he met another Galactic-Residential on the streets. But then he noticed the hat on the other fellow's head – it was a traitor! Or an extremist! Or a coward! Or all of the above! Luckily, Uncommon Residential has a word that covers all three, as well as «soda-drinking». Nobody ever really uses it in the last meaning, though, as soda hasn't been invented in this galaxy. That's actually a real shame.
«Bla-bl-blargh!» he exclaimed at the sight of the hat. The bla-bl-blargh, however, saw himself as far more sophisticated than the farmer, and therefore spoke Common Residential, and not a word of Uncommon. He didn't understand what the farmer had just called him; in Common Residential, bla-bl-blargh is a polite form of «There's a wart on your face.»
The fellow was distressed by these news. He had looked in a mirror just that morning, and seen no warts. He had then heard a news report saying that it was Tuesday (the Galactic-Residential police was looking into the matter), and promptly but reluctantly put on his hat. He was a sophisticated and law-abiding citizen, and despite attempts, nobody had managed to remove the old rule that all Galactic-Residentials must wear hats on Tuesdays. In the end, this was what had led to the removal of Tuesdays in general.
But now, this fellow citizen was telling him he had a wart in his face? It had to be the hat's fault. He politely thanked the farmer for pointing it out («Bl-bla-bla-blargh»), threw his hat on the ground and hurried away to find the nearest mirror so he could check if the wart was still present.
The farmer came out of this situation in a state of severe confusion. From his perspective, the fellow Galactic-Residential had responded to accusations of being a soda-drinking, cowardly, extremist traitor by declaring himself a porcupine (What was a "porcupine", anyway?), dropping his hat and hurrying off.
The farmer looked at the hat on the ground, and felt the anger rise inside of him. Not only had the bla-bl-blargh worn a hat, but now he was forcing the ground to wear one?! That was the last drop – the farmer was filled completely with rage at the drop of the hat, and promptly blew it to pieces with his Galactic-Residential-Corp® farmer's rake, which he had been keeping in his pocket.
In a galaxy far, far away from the galaxy far, far away, and even further, further awayer from our galaxy, at the headquarters of the company supplying parts for Galactic-Residential-Corp®, Conspiracy-Corp®, an important computer exploded. The hat had been a Galactic-Residential-Corp® product, containing a part of the conspiracy nobody knew that Conspiracy-Corp® was a major participant in. The computer had the responsibility of contacting and checking on the parts involved in the conspiracy, gathering information. However, it was badly programmed, and didn't take into account the possibility of a null-pointer-exception, which caused it to somehow explode when attempting to process the data it expected the hat to send. As a sign of even worse foresight in planning the conspiracy, all the data was stored on that computer.
The conspiracy was set back several millennia on the drop of a hat. Really, it's a wonder a computer like that managed to not explode for that long.
The farmer, however, knew nothing about this. He went back to his farm, happy to have contributed against the hat menace. He was later appointed Chief of Accidental Conspiracy Destruction, but never found out why. The sophisticated fellow swore off hats forever for the sake of avoiding warts, only to pick up a taste in monocles. The monocle subculture corrupted him, and he was later jailed for pro-monocle extremism, with a side charge of politely pointing out the wart on a policeman's face.
The end.
(AN: Remember how the farmer has an incredible moustache? No? Me neither by the time I'd written the paragraph directly after.)