Thursday, June 07, 2007

The adventures of Stickman in Stickland upon the advent of a year in limbo


hey i started this in JULY 2006, and its taken this long for me to get of my ass and type it to u...

The Adventures of Stickman TM in Stickland:

Upon the advent of a Year in LimboPurpose or Literary Intent: TO Delight the life and times of ANjalie Leonora Pieres

The Beginning

Yet another sunny day dawns in Stickland. Stickcrows tweet and warble like they have nothing better to do and poop freely on unsuspecting passers by. Stickorganisms accept this with little rancour because the guiding principle to a happy and content sticklife is to accept that stickshit happens.

Unfortunately, for Stickman, all is not well with him. He plods along the dusty road (plod plod plodplodplod plod ploddle plod.)

Stickmans facical expression is decidedly morose.

Sorrow and a fair degree of despondency waft from the crown of his head in creamy clouds. Stickman coughs because he inhales bits of cloud and this gives his nasal guardians migrane.

Whilts plodding along, Stickman encounters a fair number of Stickants. Luminous blue with orange pinstripes, they are easily spotted. (Except when ones eyes are closed).
The Sitckants march in a highly efficient and rapid manner with a discreet glint of mania in their shiny pink eyes. Stickman pauses for thought, slightly to the Right of the Great Column of Advancing ants.

Stickman thinks with even more gusto than usual (still maintaining a despondent air, if such an attitude is possible.) Circles of So Pink scented smoke begin to emanate from his ears and he has to sit on a conveniently located mound for extra support.

Stickmans thoughts and ruminations are as follows:

" The ants... they live such an orderly life. They march, in unity, together, in a unidirectional formation. Their very tread imposes a tangible rhythm to the comparitively chaotic lives of Stickpeople. Above all, they are Ants with a Mission. They know where they are going, and where their destiny lies."


(Stickmans voice has cracked in 3 places. It has morphed into the voice of God in a 1950s movie-eg. the one where Charlton Heston is Moses)

"Thus the ants march on. Assured certainty in this tremulous world of Stickshadows. They each have a small role to play in the Grand Ant Plan and the fate of each any is inscribed on the earth it treads on.

Enter the voice of Bart Simpson as the Voice of Stickman

" I, on the other hand, am seated on a mound of dust, watching the ants go marching one by one (HooraHH, hooraHH). I have no purpose , no function and I am decidedly deficient of purose and function."

Exeunt B. Simpson

At which point, Stickman is drained of all testosterone. Assuming the God voice has drained him of all of it. Stickman now has a voice that is completely indistinguishable from Stickgirl's.

Stickman continues to perch upon the mound and keeps as quiet as possible and tries to think positively about the situation.

"I am doomed doomed doomed doooooooooooooooooomed!!!!!!!!!!!!!! How can I ever show my face in Sticktown again? My brotherhood will laugh at me and no Stickfemale will have a straight face when Im around, besides my great Aunty Ethel!!!" (Great-Aunty Ethel is as deaf as a coconut.)

At this point, Fate casts a benevolent eye on Stickman and sighs. A gentle warm wind ruffles stickmans ears. Fate then giggle and prods Stickgirl onto the scene.

The column of Stickants, has, incidentally, marched deep into the bowels of Anthill 73B for collective swigs of icey Elephant House Ginger Beer which is what makes their sting...sting.

Stickgirl staunter jauntily onto the scene, Heavy Duty Feather Duster in hand.

" wow. dig the atmosphere of gloom and dispair!" she remarks astutely.

Stickman realises that she is near and tries to look invisible. Stickgirl squeaks as she sees stickman with a rapidly vanishing left foot. Stickmans concentration is interrupted by Stickgirls shrill shrieks which occur at a frequency of one every fifth second. So he scowls at her instead.

"Dont you SCOWL at me Stickman".

Stickman, gathers what little dignity he has left and slings it over his shoulder. He then tries to walk away in a studied manly fashion.

Stickgirl is deeply offended and displays her irritation by picking up a handfull of dust and flinging it at Stickmans head. Stickman has his back to her and is blissfully unaware of the very real danger he faces of being Clobbered from Behind.

As the handfull of dirt makes contact with the base of his skull, Stickman is greeted by his old friend, Ye Olde Orange Crate. It lands squarely on him like a crate of falling oranges. Stickgirl, a hardened madam, turns around and trips off into the sunset.Oh heartless world.

The orange crate begins to hum the "Dont worry, be happy" tune and stickman begins to realise that he has been hit by an orange crate that fell at terminal velocity. Feeling slightly annoyed, politely bids the orange crate to fuck off and die.

The orange crate, being in a relative position of power begins to whistle Good Vibrations (by the Beach Boys).

As stickman lies there, a prone and 2 Dimesnional mess of crushed bone, muscle and nervous tissue, he drifts off to the land of nod.

Big mistake.

Stickmans life force begins to seep away from him, into the ground and Stickman is drawn into the black hole that is Death. So you really cant blame him for missing the approaching boom of a flock of airborne Stickchickens breaking the sound barrier.

Drawn by the luminous orange of the oranges in the orange crate and the stickmans glistening body fluids that are oozing from the crate, the Stickchickens swoop and dive towards the splodge that was once Stickman.

It took a couple of minutes for the Sitckchickens to realise what had happened, but when they did, the gathered around Stickman , clucking anxiously. Pale blue tears of sadness trickeld fromt he eyes fo each bird as they realised that the central figure of Chicken-Toe Veneration (Stickman--honourary head of the Chicken-Toe Cult) was almost no more.

Stickbirds on the whole are not famed for their mental acuity, but in times of trouble, a Stickchicken can usually be relied upon to do the right thing. Slowly, the birds formed a circle around their idol. A single deep cluck of sorrow emanated from each feathered gullet and each stickchicken glared with beady eyes at the offending crate.

The crate began to realise that all was not right, and ceased to hum. Frankly, the crate felt threatened. Crates are not intrinsically evil (Bar the Arms Crates) but are not particularly sympathetic to their victims either. However, under the gaze of thirty seven stickchickens, the crate began to quail.(who wouldnt?)

Within 3 minutes of this visual attack from the chickens, the crate had experienced a substantial range of unpleasant physical phenomena. (eg: goosebumps, pins and needles, pruritus (itching), nausea, IBS, hot flushes and a runny nose). The crate felt its slats expanding and contracting and the oranges huddled even closer together because they had a nasty feeling that their number were up.

Some of us in life always display a certain degree of orange-ness...characterised by a 'go with the flow but end up in the shit' Life Pattern.

The crate began to quiver gently in the still air and stickman felt his life forces returning. The crate began to tilt and shiver violently. The oranges were terrified. One small orange began to leak juice. The crate gave an anguished yell and fell to one side.

The oranges all died.

Stickman, however, rose gently from the ground, fully restored (except fro the fact that he was 2 dimensional) and smiled benignly at the stickchickens.

Amazed by their own powers, the stickchickens began to hoot with glee and affectionately pecked at stickmans feet, before flying off into the sunset.

The oranges were still dead. sorry everyone.