laxmatt
16th June 2007, 09:58 PM
So what's worse than an author with shallow ideas, shallow plots, and even shallower characters? An author that suffers from delusions of grandeur! Read this awful, yet pathetically amusing (laughing at him, not with him) short by a fundamentalist christian. It seems to present itself as some sort of philosophical story, but stops short of saying... anything at all (except that atheists suck). The story is not copyrighted.
Dinner Party for the Deceased
By Michael Gryboski
It was quite exciting to think of it. Amazing that they were coming here, to my place of all places! By nature I am good at suppressing my emotions, so my countenance did not expose to my seven famous and infamous guests my elation, which was to the point of having me look like a cover band leader meeting the group he models. It is almost time; I cannot wait for them to come. I had set the dinner to be at six on the dot, though I was more than certain that O’Hair would be fashionably late. The first automobile showed up, and to my surprise it was Karl Marx and his newfound friend Francois Marie Arouet, both of them noted thinkers of their time.
Marx drove the vehicle, as he opposed having a butler do it for him. Francois Marie Arouet was indifferent, and felt as though Marx reminded him of an old rival. Both men came to the door, with Marx ringing the bell and I answering it, fearing what Karl would do if a servant did instead. Marx did not shave for the occasion, so he had that lion mane of a hairstyle when I saw him. Arouet had his favorite wig on, as well as some of the finest garments worn before the revolution. I immediately introduced myself in formal manner as the two men stood in the pleasant placid weather.
“Greetings, welcome Marx and Arouet,” I said.
“Glad to be here,” said Marx.
“Please, sir, call me Voltaire,” said Arouet.
“Vol?—“
“Taire, Voltaire. That is my preferred name.”
“A revolution unto itself, I might add,” said Marx. I said my further hellos and then had them enter the house, going through the well-lit hallway and into the nicely decorated dining hall. Voltaire felt quite at home, and Marx, although showing some contempt for the embroidered table cloth, also approved. As I was about to shut the door, another automobile showed up, driven by an English butler. In it there was a fellow who looked like he had dissolved something big and by his side a man whom smoke went from his mouth like a dragon. Yet, as the nice guy came closer, I could see that it was a breath from a cigar smoked on the way to the party. I could hear the two Britons as they came to the open door.
“I really pray that you would not chain thyself to such a detestable sinful practice.”
“Smoking this cigar is one of three things: it is enjoyable, painful, or insane. It’s not painful to me and I’m not crazy, so it must be enjoyable,” quickly replied the man.
“Why do you have people call you that anyway, it’s not your real name?”
“Consider what my loving mother named me.”
They came to the door and said their greetings to me and formally addressed them.
“Hello, Oliver Cromwell, and welcome to the dinner party.”
“Content to be here, I say.”
“And hello Clive Staples—“
“Call me Jack, everyone else does.”
“Sure, why not?” I said.
“I have heard the meal is supposed to be jolly good.”
“That is what I have heard as well, Oliver,” said Jack as the two men made their way to the dining room, where I made sure that cigars were at the ready for Lewis, but also Cuban ones for Marx. As ten minutes went by, the rest of the males guests arrived: Thomas Aquinas and Aristotle, both of whom I invited although Aristotle had been rumored to have it in for Thomas given that it’s been said that he plagiarized his work. We all by the seats assigned, with three seats on each side, and one seat on either short end of the rectangular table. To my left and closest to me on that side was Karl Marx, next to him Voltaire, and next to Voltaire Lewis. On the other side to my right was Thomas Aquinas, and next to him Aristotle, and next to Aristotle was Oliver Cromwell.
“I guess our only female guest decided not to arrive,” I had to say after we waited for a half an hour.
“Close the door to the Ark already!” declared Cromwell in a booming voice. So I decided to get things rolling.
“Alright then, we are about to receive our first course, tomato soup with precious basil and saltine crackers. Before that, shall I say grace?” I asked, more of a plea given that Voltaire, Marx, and Aristotle might get offended. But all three decided and spoke to me that they did not mind, with Marx saying he could survive a small dosage of opium, whatever relevance to the topic, I had no idea. As the heads bowed and I was about to start, a door slammed and there entered in street clothes an old angry looking woman with short white hair and big glasses.
“I object to this prayer stuff, it’s unconstitutional!” she shouted, to the annoyance of all present including the servants about to give the soup. My last guest, and the only female, Madalyn Murray O’Hair had arrived. “Why don’t you lousy pigs wait for me? I thought you were all nice gentlemen folks, but I guess not. Pathetic!”
Because of her bellyaching, grace was never said. But the first course was served; baize plates filled with mildly simmering tomato soup were put before each guest. The soup would have been warmer had it not been for the lateness of O’Hair. Worse yet, she complained about the soup not tasting real enough, amongst other things. She is not acting like a lady, this I know. Regardless, our guests went about their talk as they happily dipped their spoons into the course, and tipped them at their lips, letting the pleasant substance flow into their hungry mouths.
“I am telling you, Gzrybowski, that you need to free your workers. They should be your equals.”
“True, Marx, but I think that the fact I pay them on the hour, and with efficient pay at that justifies it. After all, that’s why your ideology never got to expand in Western Europe and America. Some people like their lot in life.”
“That is only because they were brought up to believe that it was what was meant to be by Divine Providence,” he said as he slurped more of the soup, which he had an unknown fascination with the hue. As I spoke with Marx, I was taking note of the conversation between Aristotle and Aquinas, both of whom were ahead of the others in their soup consumption.
“The fact remains is that you stole from me, Tom. Very few of those ideas were actually yours, and that cuts me to the quick.”
“All I was doing was harmonizing your philosophy with the Church’s. I can’t help it if you had so many good ideas. It’s not like I didn’t cite you. My whole purpose was no secret.”
“And I remember hearing about it from a friend: make me talk like a Christian was what I heard,” he said with some disdain though not much as he finished off the bowl of soup, apparently rather hungry.
“You should be happy,” said Aquinas, slightly diverting the conversation.
“Why?” said Aristotle, as a servant took his finished white bowl with thin streaks of tomato red from his sight.
“If it had not been for my efforts, your ideas would have been lost to the whole world. I brought you back into the mainstream. You had an organization as powerful and influential as the Church in medieval times actually adhering to a worldview shaped by your writings.”
“You do have a point, Tom,” said a conceding Aristotle. He continued, “And I guess those ideas on the Crusades and sexual morality came from your mind, not mine. People do remember you for different things.”
“Yes, they do.”
“Also, the inaccurate assessment of our solar system did make you pay bad enough for copying me,” said Aristotle with a laugh.
“It was your fault in the end,” countered Aquinas.
“Yeah but everyone thinks of you when they hear the name Galileo,” said the Greek with another pleasant laugh. I was happy to see them getting along, for I feared a bit of tension might ensue. But, to my surprise, it was O’Hair who was causing the ruckus on her side of the table, arguing with Cromwell, a man brought up to not do such with a lady. Then again, this was under the assumption O’Hair falls under that category. Aquinas was quick to take the side of Cromwell, comparing the English Civil War to the Crusades and Marx took the side, though with remorse, of Madalyn, arguing that it was done in the name of an opiate, but indeed the English Civil War kept him silent due to the fact that it was in the name of this “conforming opiate” that Cromwell and his ironsides fought.
Course number two came along, which was Greek Salad with French bread. This course had minor talks about it, with O’Hair scolding Lewis for his smoking, the one thing I agreed with that woman about when it came to the evening. As she delved into the French bread, Madalyn called it uncooked and claimed I was trying to kill her for her beliefs in a strong separation of church and state. It took Voltaire to be a voice of reason, mentioning that he liked the bread just as it was and he also despised the Church. I felt very ambivalent when it came to his defense of me.
“I still say you’re trying to kill me,” muttered the grumpy old woman.
“No offense, madam, but if Gzrybowski here wanted to kill you for the reasons aforementioned he would have done away with us intellectual adversaries first,” dissented Karl Marx.
“Whatever, you lousy Jew. It’s your people’s fault that we even have a Christianity. Anyway, where’s the last meal Dumbski?”
“That’s Gzrybowski.”
“Whatever.”
I had some remorse about ever even thinking about inviting her as the servants gave the blessing of the last course. Marx was happy to learn that I cooked this one myself: spaghetti with three kinds of tomato sauce, as well as more bread that was warm and melted the butter placed on it, and lastly some champagne for the alcoholic drinkers of the party and cola for the rest. But before we could even take a bite, O’Hair was scolding one of the servants, and said to the one wearing a cross over his outfit in a loud obnoxious voice:
“You stupid little slave, when will you ever stand on your own two feet?”
With that, the “stupid little slave” grabbed the woman by the neck, led her out, and saw her to the ground with a thump, with her cursing extensively in the background as the door was slammed shut. There was silence, with Marx thinking he had seen a proletarian revolution, Aquinas and Cromwell seeing a religious revolt, and the rest just plain knowing better. Voltaire was the one who broke the silence as the servants tacitly left the dining room: “I did not want to hurt that woman, so I am very glad someone else did it for me instead.”
With that, every guest broke out into laughter as well as I. The noise was not loud, but it was long, lasting several moments, only dying down because of self-suppression. With a saying of grace, we went into our well-cooked meal and were pleasantly filled as the clock struck seven. We went on to talk about profound intellectual topics as the night wore on.
Wow. That was awful. My favorite part: "After all, that’s why your ideology never got to expand in Western Europe and America. Some people like their lot in life". I guess that means the poor love poverty. Anyway, here's the kid'ds website ht tp://w ww.cross-nation.co m/dficfaithutmost.ht ml (I'm not at 15 posts yet - cut and paste and get rid of the gaps.)
Dinner Party for the Deceased
By Michael Gryboski
It was quite exciting to think of it. Amazing that they were coming here, to my place of all places! By nature I am good at suppressing my emotions, so my countenance did not expose to my seven famous and infamous guests my elation, which was to the point of having me look like a cover band leader meeting the group he models. It is almost time; I cannot wait for them to come. I had set the dinner to be at six on the dot, though I was more than certain that O’Hair would be fashionably late. The first automobile showed up, and to my surprise it was Karl Marx and his newfound friend Francois Marie Arouet, both of them noted thinkers of their time.
Marx drove the vehicle, as he opposed having a butler do it for him. Francois Marie Arouet was indifferent, and felt as though Marx reminded him of an old rival. Both men came to the door, with Marx ringing the bell and I answering it, fearing what Karl would do if a servant did instead. Marx did not shave for the occasion, so he had that lion mane of a hairstyle when I saw him. Arouet had his favorite wig on, as well as some of the finest garments worn before the revolution. I immediately introduced myself in formal manner as the two men stood in the pleasant placid weather.
“Greetings, welcome Marx and Arouet,” I said.
“Glad to be here,” said Marx.
“Please, sir, call me Voltaire,” said Arouet.
“Vol?—“
“Taire, Voltaire. That is my preferred name.”
“A revolution unto itself, I might add,” said Marx. I said my further hellos and then had them enter the house, going through the well-lit hallway and into the nicely decorated dining hall. Voltaire felt quite at home, and Marx, although showing some contempt for the embroidered table cloth, also approved. As I was about to shut the door, another automobile showed up, driven by an English butler. In it there was a fellow who looked like he had dissolved something big and by his side a man whom smoke went from his mouth like a dragon. Yet, as the nice guy came closer, I could see that it was a breath from a cigar smoked on the way to the party. I could hear the two Britons as they came to the open door.
“I really pray that you would not chain thyself to such a detestable sinful practice.”
“Smoking this cigar is one of three things: it is enjoyable, painful, or insane. It’s not painful to me and I’m not crazy, so it must be enjoyable,” quickly replied the man.
“Why do you have people call you that anyway, it’s not your real name?”
“Consider what my loving mother named me.”
They came to the door and said their greetings to me and formally addressed them.
“Hello, Oliver Cromwell, and welcome to the dinner party.”
“Content to be here, I say.”
“And hello Clive Staples—“
“Call me Jack, everyone else does.”
“Sure, why not?” I said.
“I have heard the meal is supposed to be jolly good.”
“That is what I have heard as well, Oliver,” said Jack as the two men made their way to the dining room, where I made sure that cigars were at the ready for Lewis, but also Cuban ones for Marx. As ten minutes went by, the rest of the males guests arrived: Thomas Aquinas and Aristotle, both of whom I invited although Aristotle had been rumored to have it in for Thomas given that it’s been said that he plagiarized his work. We all by the seats assigned, with three seats on each side, and one seat on either short end of the rectangular table. To my left and closest to me on that side was Karl Marx, next to him Voltaire, and next to Voltaire Lewis. On the other side to my right was Thomas Aquinas, and next to him Aristotle, and next to Aristotle was Oliver Cromwell.
“I guess our only female guest decided not to arrive,” I had to say after we waited for a half an hour.
“Close the door to the Ark already!” declared Cromwell in a booming voice. So I decided to get things rolling.
“Alright then, we are about to receive our first course, tomato soup with precious basil and saltine crackers. Before that, shall I say grace?” I asked, more of a plea given that Voltaire, Marx, and Aristotle might get offended. But all three decided and spoke to me that they did not mind, with Marx saying he could survive a small dosage of opium, whatever relevance to the topic, I had no idea. As the heads bowed and I was about to start, a door slammed and there entered in street clothes an old angry looking woman with short white hair and big glasses.
“I object to this prayer stuff, it’s unconstitutional!” she shouted, to the annoyance of all present including the servants about to give the soup. My last guest, and the only female, Madalyn Murray O’Hair had arrived. “Why don’t you lousy pigs wait for me? I thought you were all nice gentlemen folks, but I guess not. Pathetic!”
Because of her bellyaching, grace was never said. But the first course was served; baize plates filled with mildly simmering tomato soup were put before each guest. The soup would have been warmer had it not been for the lateness of O’Hair. Worse yet, she complained about the soup not tasting real enough, amongst other things. She is not acting like a lady, this I know. Regardless, our guests went about their talk as they happily dipped their spoons into the course, and tipped them at their lips, letting the pleasant substance flow into their hungry mouths.
“I am telling you, Gzrybowski, that you need to free your workers. They should be your equals.”
“True, Marx, but I think that the fact I pay them on the hour, and with efficient pay at that justifies it. After all, that’s why your ideology never got to expand in Western Europe and America. Some people like their lot in life.”
“That is only because they were brought up to believe that it was what was meant to be by Divine Providence,” he said as he slurped more of the soup, which he had an unknown fascination with the hue. As I spoke with Marx, I was taking note of the conversation between Aristotle and Aquinas, both of whom were ahead of the others in their soup consumption.
“The fact remains is that you stole from me, Tom. Very few of those ideas were actually yours, and that cuts me to the quick.”
“All I was doing was harmonizing your philosophy with the Church’s. I can’t help it if you had so many good ideas. It’s not like I didn’t cite you. My whole purpose was no secret.”
“And I remember hearing about it from a friend: make me talk like a Christian was what I heard,” he said with some disdain though not much as he finished off the bowl of soup, apparently rather hungry.
“You should be happy,” said Aquinas, slightly diverting the conversation.
“Why?” said Aristotle, as a servant took his finished white bowl with thin streaks of tomato red from his sight.
“If it had not been for my efforts, your ideas would have been lost to the whole world. I brought you back into the mainstream. You had an organization as powerful and influential as the Church in medieval times actually adhering to a worldview shaped by your writings.”
“You do have a point, Tom,” said a conceding Aristotle. He continued, “And I guess those ideas on the Crusades and sexual morality came from your mind, not mine. People do remember you for different things.”
“Yes, they do.”
“Also, the inaccurate assessment of our solar system did make you pay bad enough for copying me,” said Aristotle with a laugh.
“It was your fault in the end,” countered Aquinas.
“Yeah but everyone thinks of you when they hear the name Galileo,” said the Greek with another pleasant laugh. I was happy to see them getting along, for I feared a bit of tension might ensue. But, to my surprise, it was O’Hair who was causing the ruckus on her side of the table, arguing with Cromwell, a man brought up to not do such with a lady. Then again, this was under the assumption O’Hair falls under that category. Aquinas was quick to take the side of Cromwell, comparing the English Civil War to the Crusades and Marx took the side, though with remorse, of Madalyn, arguing that it was done in the name of an opiate, but indeed the English Civil War kept him silent due to the fact that it was in the name of this “conforming opiate” that Cromwell and his ironsides fought.
Course number two came along, which was Greek Salad with French bread. This course had minor talks about it, with O’Hair scolding Lewis for his smoking, the one thing I agreed with that woman about when it came to the evening. As she delved into the French bread, Madalyn called it uncooked and claimed I was trying to kill her for her beliefs in a strong separation of church and state. It took Voltaire to be a voice of reason, mentioning that he liked the bread just as it was and he also despised the Church. I felt very ambivalent when it came to his defense of me.
“I still say you’re trying to kill me,” muttered the grumpy old woman.
“No offense, madam, but if Gzrybowski here wanted to kill you for the reasons aforementioned he would have done away with us intellectual adversaries first,” dissented Karl Marx.
“Whatever, you lousy Jew. It’s your people’s fault that we even have a Christianity. Anyway, where’s the last meal Dumbski?”
“That’s Gzrybowski.”
“Whatever.”
I had some remorse about ever even thinking about inviting her as the servants gave the blessing of the last course. Marx was happy to learn that I cooked this one myself: spaghetti with three kinds of tomato sauce, as well as more bread that was warm and melted the butter placed on it, and lastly some champagne for the alcoholic drinkers of the party and cola for the rest. But before we could even take a bite, O’Hair was scolding one of the servants, and said to the one wearing a cross over his outfit in a loud obnoxious voice:
“You stupid little slave, when will you ever stand on your own two feet?”
With that, the “stupid little slave” grabbed the woman by the neck, led her out, and saw her to the ground with a thump, with her cursing extensively in the background as the door was slammed shut. There was silence, with Marx thinking he had seen a proletarian revolution, Aquinas and Cromwell seeing a religious revolt, and the rest just plain knowing better. Voltaire was the one who broke the silence as the servants tacitly left the dining room: “I did not want to hurt that woman, so I am very glad someone else did it for me instead.”
With that, every guest broke out into laughter as well as I. The noise was not loud, but it was long, lasting several moments, only dying down because of self-suppression. With a saying of grace, we went into our well-cooked meal and were pleasantly filled as the clock struck seven. We went on to talk about profound intellectual topics as the night wore on.
Wow. That was awful. My favorite part: "After all, that’s why your ideology never got to expand in Western Europe and America. Some people like their lot in life". I guess that means the poor love poverty. Anyway, here's the kid'ds website ht tp://w ww.cross-nation.co m/dficfaithutmost.ht ml (I'm not at 15 posts yet - cut and paste and get rid of the gaps.)