Greatest Ebaums Story. First Draft.
Letemdangle
Published
03/26/2011
This is the first draft to The Greatest Ebaum's Story Ever Told. Please add statements or ideas in the comment section. Everything is welcomed, from just statements to ideas to direction. Be a part of, THE GREATEST EBAUMS'S STORY EVER TOLD!
I sit unchallenged before the instrument that on one dimension allows me to express myself. On another dimension it borrows into my cranium like a drill looking for life sustenance. At first, I think it is killing me, but then I realize it only feeds on my imagination to feed itself. I am not dying. I am becoming part of a bigger picture.
It is getting late and while others are starting to Google hunt for kiddie porn my consciousness tells me (quietly) that I am now a bunch of film on the cutting room floor during a post on What the Bleep do We Know.
All my ideas, thoughts and imagination have been stripped down to one last frame. A peony and a talking lizard named Churchill is all that is left from a once epic compilation that not only entertained but informed, encouraged and at times even comforted.
My mind rewinds to a comment, while not refined or sober, in some way describes the essence of my soul. It poignancy matches all that I have created, it's vulgarity all that I have destroyed, it's juvenility with my ignorance and naivety. "You are the best fucking blogger alive. If Mick Jagger and Ron Paul had a baby, then that baby had sex with Jessica Simpson, you would come out her Vajeen."
Man's foolish pride plays a dominant part in this art. It chokes it, changing the canvas from wondrous art that feeds the soul to a school child's scribbles who's only attribute is how many brightly red stars adorn the page. Or perhaps a comment or two ensuring little Harold has a yet undetected intellect.
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Intermission.
While you contemplate, why not watch to this superb video for inspiration?
I sit unchallenged before the instrument that on one dimension allows me to express myself. On another dimension it borrows into my cranium like a drill looking for life sustenance. At first, I think it is killing me, but then I realize it only feeds on my imagination to feed itself. I am not dying. I am becoming part of a bigger picture.
It is getting late and while others are starting to Google hunt for kiddie porn my consciousness tells me (quietly) that I am now a bunch of film on the cutting room floor during a post on What the Bleep do We Know.
All my ideas, thoughts and imagination have been stripped down to one last frame. A peony and a talking lizard named Churchill is all that is left from a once epic compilation that not only entertained but informed, encouraged and at times even comforted.
My mind rewinds to a comment, while not refined or sober, in some way describes the essence of my soul. It poignancy matches all that I have created, it's vulgarity all that I have destroyed, it's juvenility with my ignorance and naivety. "You are the best fucking blogger alive. If Mick Jagger and Ron Paul had a baby, then that baby had sex with Jessica Simpson, you would come out her Vajeen."
Man's foolish pride plays a dominant part in this art. It chokes it, changing the canvas from wondrous art that feeds the soul to a school child's scribbles who's only attribute is how many brightly red stars adorn the page. Or perhaps a comment or two ensuring little Harold has a yet undetected intellect.
________________________________________________________________________________________
Intermission.
While you contemplate, why not watch to this superb video for inspiration?
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