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Sane Magazine Eaten By Giant Space Dog
Tragedy and, some might say, something else (if one weren't terribly good with words or anything, or hoped to be just a bit too good with words when one should probably have stuck to simpler, less polysyllabic (should they ever actually be formed and not, indeed, drop lifeless and voiceless from the very cracked open head of, ehm, Zeus, or something along those lines, to wax slightly, yet not completely successfully, mythic - like a piano with it's keys shuttered against little kids fingers, which mash the top of the wooden covering anyway, making thick plonking sounds and the piano wires thrum worriedly beneath, as if to cluck over children allowed to run rampant and exhibit unnaturally keen interest in playing a piano, though they've never read a note in their lives, only less so, as these words aren't so much as allowed to thrum on about children but more kind of just sit there, like piano wires that aren't, in fact, being banged on or nearabouts by little children) words, words you can really wrap your mouth and tongue and all that lot around, ones that harken back perhaps to simpler times, times when words were pretty easily understandable and you didn't have things like psychofarmacology and longer words, though where you'd use psychofarmacology, even as an noun, which is what it is, really, you'd be hard-pressed to find today, and would be why, possibly, it's best to stick with the simpler words, the ones that were harkening back, because then you've not got to worry about words like psychofarmacology getting in the way when you dip back and think, 'Let me just fetch a decent, good, rounded sort of complicated sounding word in there and chuck it out, see how it feels, oh... wait, is that an adjective, will I seem clever using it as an adjective if it isn't? Can I adjective-ise it? Easily? Or might I get hurt on that one with something that winds up largely unpronounceable? It's not like I've a golden tongue at the best of times, so it might be better, to, oh, that's kind of built up to a large awkward pause now, they might assume I've finished talking, I'd better sort of throw out an "ehm" and maybe a hand gesture to complete the sort of, like, joie de vivre type of thing that I'm trying to get across... oh, right, that was a bit of a weak hand gesture, like I was wrapping up, I'd better go fetch something suitably closure-like, something that doesn't put too fine a point on it but that wraps it up, at any rate, like one of those burritos when they're not too overstuffed with beef or chicken or bean or anything and it all just fits nicely in your hand, though I don't, to be honest, think you're supposed to pick up burritos (at least not ones that don't come from Taco Bell) in your hand, I think you're supposed to eat them off the plate with a knife and fork, though that may be a wild guess at burrito etiquette...' and then you wonder why it is you're not invited to many parties any more when you really would just be better served sticking to the old meat and potatoes kind of words, you know?) erupted, or eeked out goopily this week when Sane Magazine was eaten by a giant space dog.
It's uncertain as to whether or not Giant Space Dog should have been capitalised or not.
It's also uncertain what, exactly, a giant space dog is. It sounds vaguely like something you might get at a Brooklyn hot dog stand, the special of the house or something, with chili and cheese and two kinds of bacon and another kind of cheese and onions and aubergine (purely by accident, the aubergine, you understand, the chef was just thinking the thing looked not quite daunting enough and needed one last ingredient to bulk it up a bit and the purple-ish colour did well to make you think you were getting a serious hot dog, one that might cause severe intestinal damage, should it get let down that far), all served with a soda and a bag of crisps (alas, not Tayto, because this is Brooklyn and not Ireland, after all).
There was much consternation and concerned-looking frowning going on outside the Sane Magazine offices in Merrion Square (Baile Átha Cliath) and Sloane Avenue (London) by numerous bystanders and lookers-on, the more impressive performances being performed brilliantly by those standing in or near the rather large holes in the earth where various things that made up Sane Magazine once stood. And did stuff.
It is not known quite yet whether or not giant space dogs are prosecute-able or, indeed, if the offence (or possible offence) was a prosecute-able offence.
It is not known at this time nor anytime previous to this incident with what sort of wine Sane Magazine is best. Red is suspected.
disclaimer:
So perhaps by design, perhaps by accident (and aren't we all just happy accidents, or aren't they all, you can never tell which, it's like that old relative with the wonky eye, looking askew at everything, maybe, maybe, maybe, baby), here we are. S'week to you.
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