Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Economy of Verbosity
(i.e., Minimization of Verborhea)
Mr. Stephenesque, chief (and sole) writer, editor, reseracher, gumshoe, and self-observer of the American Fez, the online journal of the Stephenesque Organization, once again demonstrates the art of the bon mot. Well, actually, a collection of bon mots. Here, he recounts the tale of Prince Philip and his holiness. Mr. Stephenesque has some of the tightest, most gorgeous entries, almost always based on the "Less is Much Much More" principle.
Clincher (and closer) line?
"Personally I admire their theological clarity. Unlike other religions, at least they possess photographic proof that their deity is real."
Reading Mr. Stephenesque's entries, as I have over the past 3 1/2 years, always reminds me of an incident involving some acquaintances of ours quite a few years ago.
A long-married couple have had a long-standing competition with each other regarding who of the two of them had a better story to tell. If the story was actually based on facts, it was a bonus. If it was based on the truth, well not so much a bonus since Truth is such a wriggly greasy little beast, a difficult squirm of events to wrestle down.
One particular summer storm night, when electricity was in the air and sometimes also landing in trees as evidenced by split trunks the following morning, the couple was engaged in seperate activities in seperate rooms. The husband was watching a baseball game on tv, being broadcast from a city unencumbered with torrential rain and a Sturm und Drang lightening display. His spouse, ignoring sensibility during this electrical storm, was on the phone informing someone of her cleverly concocted opinions (BTW, I was going to use the old slang word, "heater", instead of phone. When I tried to link a site to the word "heater", it turns out that these days, the phone can be the heater....seriously. There are phones that can warm (or cool) the hands of the user, depending on how cold their hands are.).
Boom! Then, Boom! Again. Two seperaet bolts of lightening struck the house within seconds. What were the chances? Well, knowing the residents within that house, I'd say the chances were pretty damn good. The husband let out a whoop and a yelp and ran to the kitchen so as to detail the proof positive that this time he had a story to best his wife's. The tv had blown up, shards of glass in the wall, the rug, and even in him. The wooden cabinet was singed to a smoldering black, leaning to starboard, its innards slowly pouring out.
"Ah Ha! Beat this story! It blew up! Right in front of my face", he was screaming as he hobbled overto the kitchen. Turning the corner, his enthusiasm was hosed down at what he beheld. His wife, never one to be hesitant with a deluge of words, stood speechless, temporarily, by a kitchen wall. A black smudgy hole, still smoking, was all that was left of the telephone that had been mounted on the wall. Her face was a touch sooty giving her huge toothy smile an even brighter glow. Her right arm, elbow leaning on her waist, was holding a blackened piece of plastic.
"While you were sitting and viewing, I got a call from the Heavens!"
He slunk off and sat back in the frazzled favorite tv chair, muttering about Fate and stories.
Skunked, again.
So, Mr. Stephenesque, as I read that last posting, I thought about aerial electricity and your perpetually struck telephone. Where can I buy one of those?
Mr. Stephenesque, chief (and sole) writer, editor, reseracher, gumshoe, and self-observer of the American Fez, the online journal of the Stephenesque Organization, once again demonstrates the art of the bon mot. Well, actually, a collection of bon mots. Here, he recounts the tale of Prince Philip and his holiness. Mr. Stephenesque has some of the tightest, most gorgeous entries, almost always based on the "Less is Much Much More" principle.
Clincher (and closer) line?
"Personally I admire their theological clarity. Unlike other religions, at least they possess photographic proof that their deity is real."
Reading Mr. Stephenesque's entries, as I have over the past 3 1/2 years, always reminds me of an incident involving some acquaintances of ours quite a few years ago.
A long-married couple have had a long-standing competition with each other regarding who of the two of them had a better story to tell. If the story was actually based on facts, it was a bonus. If it was based on the truth, well not so much a bonus since Truth is such a wriggly greasy little beast, a difficult squirm of events to wrestle down.
One particular summer storm night, when electricity was in the air and sometimes also landing in trees as evidenced by split trunks the following morning, the couple was engaged in seperate activities in seperate rooms. The husband was watching a baseball game on tv, being broadcast from a city unencumbered with torrential rain and a Sturm und Drang lightening display. His spouse, ignoring sensibility during this electrical storm, was on the phone informing someone of her cleverly concocted opinions (BTW, I was going to use the old slang word, "heater", instead of phone. When I tried to link a site to the word "heater", it turns out that these days, the phone can be the heater....seriously. There are phones that can warm (or cool) the hands of the user, depending on how cold their hands are.).
Boom! Then, Boom! Again. Two seperaet bolts of lightening struck the house within seconds. What were the chances? Well, knowing the residents within that house, I'd say the chances were pretty damn good. The husband let out a whoop and a yelp and ran to the kitchen so as to detail the proof positive that this time he had a story to best his wife's. The tv had blown up, shards of glass in the wall, the rug, and even in him. The wooden cabinet was singed to a smoldering black, leaning to starboard, its innards slowly pouring out.
"Ah Ha! Beat this story! It blew up! Right in front of my face", he was screaming as he hobbled overto the kitchen. Turning the corner, his enthusiasm was hosed down at what he beheld. His wife, never one to be hesitant with a deluge of words, stood speechless, temporarily, by a kitchen wall. A black smudgy hole, still smoking, was all that was left of the telephone that had been mounted on the wall. Her face was a touch sooty giving her huge toothy smile an even brighter glow. Her right arm, elbow leaning on her waist, was holding a blackened piece of plastic.
"While you were sitting and viewing, I got a call from the Heavens!"
He slunk off and sat back in the frazzled favorite tv chair, muttering about Fate and stories.
Skunked, again.
So, Mr. Stephenesque, as I read that last posting, I thought about aerial electricity and your perpetually struck telephone. Where can I buy one of those?
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Comments:
<< Home Verging on Pertinence Just some more disposable thoughts clogging up the hinterlands
Well, I can sell you the phone cheap for about a grand or so. The aerial electricity I have to contract out to Ben Franklin Inc, who do some nice work with kites.
But the one you already have seems to work pretty well as far as I can tell.
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But the one you already have seems to work pretty well as far as I can tell.
# opined by 
: 11:40 AM, June 13, 2007
: 11:40 AM, June 13, 2007 << Home Verging on Pertinence Just some more disposable thoughts clogging up the hinterlands
