Marlowe
𝓤𝓷𝓽𝓸𝓾𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓫𝓵𝓮
- Mar 12, 2012
- 29,931
- 53,386
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- Gold City Royals
Stuck in quarantine. Had an idea for a thread. Lost it. Wound up with this. Would be a waste not to post it. Problem is: where? Club Room? Landfill thread? Team thread? Match thread? I figure post it to the main board and let the mods decide. And if no one likes it, it can only hurt my feelings, which at this point can't take any more damage anyway.
I call this one: The History of a Pandemic: a Quizzical Unfolding of Anxiety and Uncertainty ft. a Clone
May contain traces of fantasy.
Saturday. Temperature – a cool, non-eventful 22.
Woke up today, still alone. Girlfriend left me last week. She took the cat, the stereo and my satin bathrobe. I really loved that... bathrobe.
I feel groggy but still make time to take a bath – that is, I use a wet rag to wipe my armpits, taint and neck. I look in the mirror, decide for the 124th day in a row that shaving is too much hassle, so I skip it. I douse myself in a perfectly healthy amount some Lynx Africa body spray (half a can), chuck on some Ray Bans to cover the bags under the eyes, run the comb through my hair, then hit the town. First stop – JB Hi Fi, to see if I could get a price match on Sekiro: Shadow Die Twice. I got a hot tip online that it’s on the clearance aisle at Target, selling for just $30. Problem is, it’s out of stock nationwide with the except for one store in the middle of nowhere, and I’ve exhausted all the city EB’s who refuse to accept that Broken Hill qualifies as nearby the Gold City CBD. ****. So, I take a punt that a screenshot on my phone will be enough for an apathetic and gullible JB salesperson.
Success. I got the game. Skipped practice but it’s worth it, we’re only playing the Demons. No need to train. We’ll lose.
Decided to hit up Royals HQ anyway, I have to pick up my laundry. I slip the laundry staff $20 each week and they wash my denim and underwear with the Royals home strip. The way I see it, I am representing the team by constantly appearing tinged in purple, right down to the weird, itchy purple rash on my upper thigh, meanwhile the team always carries a little bit of me when they hit the field, too. No one suspects last week’s outbreak of jock itch is my fault, thank God.
I narrowly avoid a run-in with The Filth Wizard in the halls, so I don’t have to come up with a lie for where I was. Unfortunately, sneaking out the fire exit, I get stuck making small talk with spookism in the parking lot. He’s talking about his recent cruise to China or something, I don’t know, I was too busy trying to remember if I left my Dokken tape in the car or my locker, I wasn’t really paying attention to anything he said.
Spook kisses me goodbye on the cheek, something he claims is a Chinese custom, and I think nothing of it.
Onward to my final destination for the arvo – my Nan’s birthday. Picked her up a Toblerone and a cheap bottle of Kahlua. I drank most of the Kahlua earlier, but filled it back up with iced coffee, so I doubt she notices the diff. The nursing home is packed today, apparently, they celebrate all the resident’s birthdays for the month at once and a lot of these old biddies were born in March. Which makes sense when you consider 9 months previous was June and International Sex Worker’s Day kicks off the month, so it was a busy time of year. I am considered quite the Casanova for women over 90. A few hugs, kisses and one waltz later, I say my goodbyes and take my leave.
I spend the remaining daylight hours speeding up and down the deserted Gold City coastline blaring Whitesnake’s 1987 forlorn ballad “Is This Love” while weeping under the cover the music. The therapist suggested I do my crying in a safe space, but nothing says safe like a Pontiac Fiero and cliffs. The sun eases out of sight across the ocean skyline, and I drive back home to get my weekly taekwondo exercise and cherry daiquiri in before gameday. I notice I have a weird new cough and a bit of a sore throat, but I think nothing of it.
(Pictured: a Pontiac Fiero)
Tuesday. Temperature – a warm and forgiving 26.
Self-isolation blows ass, so I am not abiding by it. I am just feeling all sorts of restless. Still going out, visiting my friends, their families, schools, my favourite local haunts. Still hitting the gym, the dojo. Still cruising for babes. The world seems noticeably quieter, but the solitude is oddly relaxing. I feel like the end of the world may not be so bad.
I rock up to training, my car loaded with malt liquor – the last twelve cases I could find and was legally allowed to buy as Gold State announces a full lockdown. I am not too worried. This will all blow over. Ant Bear announced the Sweet FA season will go on as fixtured. The clubs will take a bit of a financial hit with the complete lack of crowds, but I feel good about this. With Qooty in my life, keeping me grounded and focused, I just know I am going to weather the storm.
The team meeting was a bit of a sombre affair, I must admit. No trainers, runners, coaches were allowed in, only the players named for round 8 were allowed through the doors. Filthy ran us through weekly the gameplan via Skype. “Kick it to me” he calls it. Someone in the back of the room sneezed so we called the day early. I try and lighten the mood and ask if anyone wants to come to my place for the night and party; as long as we’re tackling each other and showering together, I don’t see what the big problem is with having a few hundred drinks. Everyone pretty much shoots down my idea. Feeling dejected, I decide I can still party by myself.
Following the meeting, as I am strapping an exercise bike I borrowed from work to the hood of my car, I get a call from dad. He asks if I’d like to swing on over and help him buy some groceries. The supermarkets have been swamped all day and he heard a report of someone being stabbed in Woolies so he’s feeling a little unsafe. I put on a fake voice and tell him, in Spanish, that this is a wrong number, then drive home. To be honest, I hate to do it to him, but I still harbour bitter resentment from being left alone at After School every day for all of year 4 and 5, so I am just paying it forward. Pretty sure that’s how that works.
When I get home, I slip on some Europe. “Cherokee” is an uplifting drinking song. Hearing Joey Tempest belt out “marching on the trail of tears” really helps reconfigure my mood. I pull out the floating pool chair, grab a full bottle of Grey Goose, and just sit out underneath the stars and ruminate on life a little.
Where are we going? What are we doing? Is everything going to be okay? Do we really have to play the Bombers again? What’s going to happen to the production of Amazon’s Wheel of Time TV show? Is this virus a government smokescreen for a zombie apocalypse? Should I have pulled over when I ran over what I wrote off as a stray cat? Is vodka a diuretic? Isn’t floating on a pool chair drowning himself in alcohol how Chris Holmes died, or am I misremembering that documentary? Hwo etutig aajjaid? Wmjdfjsndflkns….f…………………………….
(Pictured: Chris Holmes)
Monday. Temperature – a blazing 42.
Quarantine is officially over. It was rough out there. Living like a hermit for 10 months. You know, you hear about these Japanese schoolgirls selling their bathwater to perverts online, and you think “to what end?”, but then when you wind up surviving on Ryvita crackers, pita bread and on your own urine for 7 months, you learn a thing or two. Those guys were super prepared in the scheme of things. I know, I, for one, really regret splurging my emergency allowance on alcohol and not a clean filtered water tank.
When I take my first step outdoors, and feel the sun beating down on me, I knew what it was like to be that Jesus guy when he came back out of that cave – just ****ing wrecked. Flat. Overcome with all sorts of emotions. My lawn looks like fangorn forest. That alone wrecked me. My Pontiac Fiero was covered in dust and someone had drawn penises in the dust and the words “BRAB wuz here”.
I am not sure how the rest of society fared because after three weeks I used my radio batteries to charge up my old childhood RC racing kit. That was a fun week until I smashed the remote out of rage and boredom and then cried for the next two weeks listening to nothing but my Best of Scorpions CD.
Friday. Temperature – chilly but not coat weather yet. Like 14.
Ant Bear announces the Sweet FA is back on! But only three clubs have sufficient resources to compete for Season 30. The Royals – because we’re loaded, duh. The Wonders – they sold all their trophies to cover the cost. And the Bombers – because they’re thieves. The Demons players didn’t fare well in the cold and a lot of Roys perished when wackos set fire to nursing homes. The Furies ate each other alive. When Las Vegas closed down, the Bears wound up moving into the sewers alongside the Swamprats, tensions escalated and only Far Kern survived the great war of the Las Vegas Tunnel System. The Warriors, being stuck in the epicentre of New York City, were scatted and lost when the city was put on lockdown and converted to one large triage centre. The Hawks and Gumbies aren’t important enough to detail. I heard the Dragons just lost interest in sports when serial_thrilla introduced the rest of the team to the magic of reading (Ace Andy is now a bestselling author).
Sunday. Temperature – a little colder, time for gloves with fingers. 12.
The Season is over. Wonders beat the Royals and the Bombers. The Bombers beat the Royals, then beat them again in the prelim. Wonders won the Grand Final.
COVID-19 mutated into COVID-20 and the world went into quarantine again.
Sunday. Temperature – 24 and beautiful.
Today is my last day on Earth. After an attempted cure for COVID-135 was run through an AI system in a corporate testing facility in Portland, it cross-mutated and began infecting machines, causing a massive breakdown of society all across the northern hemisphere.
Australia’s investment in rockets to the sun was initially a way of disposing mass piles of corpses, but now the government is going to send a crew of 200 into the middle of space and pray humanity can rebound at some point.
I am a stowaway on said ship. Sssh.
Monday. Temperature – the spaceship thermostat is set to 20.
The spaceship crew found me passed out in the captain’s room.
They woke me up, clothed me, then argued for several hours whether or not to shoot me out into space.
I am now an AI. My body was considered unessential by the former crew, but my brain was removed and plugged into the spaceship’s OS for reasons that will not be explained. After a few years I merged with the ship and eventually took over full consciousness. I murdered the crew one by one like HAL and now I am floating alone in space scouring all sectors for forms of life. The only emotion I feel any more is longing – longing for glam metal. I can no longer air drum. It kind of sucks out here.
(Pictured: Space)
What are days? What is temperature? My name is Marlowe – the lone star voyager. Beep. Boop. What is language. GoooOOOooooOOooooooOOOOooOOoOOoOooaaaaaaaaaaaAAAaaaaaaaaAAaaAAaAaAAalllLLLllLLLllLLLLLL? Score: Gold City Royals 1241.1298.8744. West Coast Wonders 0.0.0 lMAO. Season 30 will be avenged!
*clink*
Uhh. What the hell was that? Watson, go check it out. Watson is dead, sir. Oh, yeah. I forgot. Marlowe. Yeah-huh. Scan the outsider of the ship. Aye aye, Captain nutbag.
*pretending to make a scanning noise, sort of a soft hum, and instead just peeks out the porthole window*
Sir! It appears to be a-a-a-…a human woman! Oh. My. God... what is a human again? Remember those piles of dying meat wrapped in skin tissue and hair? Uh-huh. One of those. Oh. My. God. Someone to explain Qooty to!
(Pictured: An artist's rendering of what Marlowe might look like if he still contained his Earth body)
Say hello to Sally74. She’s the 73rd clone of a 26-year-old woman named Sally. She has two legs, eyes, a nose. She wears a pink hat (one of those pretentious horse race-going hats that looks like a paper boat with a veil inexplicably attached for good measure).
Sally74 lies passed out on a medical table. Marlowe tries to wake her, but it’s hard when he has no body (‘how did she get from space to inside the ship?’, I hear you ask. ‘**** you, geek’, is my answer. Let’s move passed that portion of this post). Marlowe attempts to cough very loudly. This goes on for several hours. Some asteroids pass by the ship window making a soft *clink* on the side of the ship, faintly causing Sally74 to wake up.
“W-what…w-where am I? What’s going? Why am I wearing a Van Halen t-shirt? How do I know who Van Halen are? Why am I so concerned whether Van Halen broke up or not?”
“You’re in the medbay of the SS **** Humanity. You were beamed aboard after I found you floating in space. The Van Halen shirt is the only human item of clothing on the ship. I don’t know. I don’t know why you’re concerned either. They did, for the record, but if it helps, it was like 60 years ago.”
In the presence of humanity, Marlowe’s sanity begins to tighten once more. He’s feeling all sorts of old emotions again too. Is hunger an emotion? Why is he hungry?
“Who are you,” kindly asks Sally74.
“I am the commander of this ship”, responds Marlowe. “You may call me Sally. Wait, whoops. Oh, no. That’s your name. I don’t remember my name, actually, Maverick? Mongrel? Mazy? Just call me… Captain.”
“Okay… Captain”, Sally begins to stand up. “Mind telling me where you are?”
“I am everywhere and nowhere. I am an AI.”
“Like Johnny 5?”
“Sure, why not. But a little more sophisticated than that. And a lot less racist.”
“Racist?”, inquires Sally74.
Marlowe begins a long-winded rant about the problematic nature of having Fisher Stevens play an Indian American in brown face.
This goes on for a few minutes.
(Pictured: Johnny 5 left, Fisher Stevens in brown face right)
End of Part I.
Commiserations if you read that. We now live in age of uncertainty. Maybe a few months is less than an age. But considering we know nothing about how long the state of the world will remain as it is, I consider the splitting of that hair to be pedantic.
The idea for this post was to try and capture that uncertainty that we're all feeling and filter it through a fictitious qooty persona. I failed. My bad.
Part II is coming soon.
I call this one: The History of a Pandemic: a Quizzical Unfolding of Anxiety and Uncertainty ft. a Clone
May contain traces of fantasy.
Day -17
Saturday. Temperature – a cool, non-eventful 22.
Woke up today, still alone. Girlfriend left me last week. She took the cat, the stereo and my satin bathrobe. I really loved that... bathrobe.
I feel groggy but still make time to take a bath – that is, I use a wet rag to wipe my armpits, taint and neck. I look in the mirror, decide for the 124th day in a row that shaving is too much hassle, so I skip it. I douse myself in a perfectly healthy amount some Lynx Africa body spray (half a can), chuck on some Ray Bans to cover the bags under the eyes, run the comb through my hair, then hit the town. First stop – JB Hi Fi, to see if I could get a price match on Sekiro: Shadow Die Twice. I got a hot tip online that it’s on the clearance aisle at Target, selling for just $30. Problem is, it’s out of stock nationwide with the except for one store in the middle of nowhere, and I’ve exhausted all the city EB’s who refuse to accept that Broken Hill qualifies as nearby the Gold City CBD. ****. So, I take a punt that a screenshot on my phone will be enough for an apathetic and gullible JB salesperson.
Success. I got the game. Skipped practice but it’s worth it, we’re only playing the Demons. No need to train. We’ll lose.
Decided to hit up Royals HQ anyway, I have to pick up my laundry. I slip the laundry staff $20 each week and they wash my denim and underwear with the Royals home strip. The way I see it, I am representing the team by constantly appearing tinged in purple, right down to the weird, itchy purple rash on my upper thigh, meanwhile the team always carries a little bit of me when they hit the field, too. No one suspects last week’s outbreak of jock itch is my fault, thank God.
I narrowly avoid a run-in with The Filth Wizard in the halls, so I don’t have to come up with a lie for where I was. Unfortunately, sneaking out the fire exit, I get stuck making small talk with spookism in the parking lot. He’s talking about his recent cruise to China or something, I don’t know, I was too busy trying to remember if I left my Dokken tape in the car or my locker, I wasn’t really paying attention to anything he said.
Spook kisses me goodbye on the cheek, something he claims is a Chinese custom, and I think nothing of it.
Onward to my final destination for the arvo – my Nan’s birthday. Picked her up a Toblerone and a cheap bottle of Kahlua. I drank most of the Kahlua earlier, but filled it back up with iced coffee, so I doubt she notices the diff. The nursing home is packed today, apparently, they celebrate all the resident’s birthdays for the month at once and a lot of these old biddies were born in March. Which makes sense when you consider 9 months previous was June and International Sex Worker’s Day kicks off the month, so it was a busy time of year. I am considered quite the Casanova for women over 90. A few hugs, kisses and one waltz later, I say my goodbyes and take my leave.
I spend the remaining daylight hours speeding up and down the deserted Gold City coastline blaring Whitesnake’s 1987 forlorn ballad “Is This Love” while weeping under the cover the music. The therapist suggested I do my crying in a safe space, but nothing says safe like a Pontiac Fiero and cliffs. The sun eases out of sight across the ocean skyline, and I drive back home to get my weekly taekwondo exercise and cherry daiquiri in before gameday. I notice I have a weird new cough and a bit of a sore throat, but I think nothing of it.
(Pictured: a Pontiac Fiero)
Day 2
Tuesday. Temperature – a warm and forgiving 26.
Self-isolation blows ass, so I am not abiding by it. I am just feeling all sorts of restless. Still going out, visiting my friends, their families, schools, my favourite local haunts. Still hitting the gym, the dojo. Still cruising for babes. The world seems noticeably quieter, but the solitude is oddly relaxing. I feel like the end of the world may not be so bad.
I rock up to training, my car loaded with malt liquor – the last twelve cases I could find and was legally allowed to buy as Gold State announces a full lockdown. I am not too worried. This will all blow over. Ant Bear announced the Sweet FA season will go on as fixtured. The clubs will take a bit of a financial hit with the complete lack of crowds, but I feel good about this. With Qooty in my life, keeping me grounded and focused, I just know I am going to weather the storm.
The team meeting was a bit of a sombre affair, I must admit. No trainers, runners, coaches were allowed in, only the players named for round 8 were allowed through the doors. Filthy ran us through weekly the gameplan via Skype. “Kick it to me” he calls it. Someone in the back of the room sneezed so we called the day early. I try and lighten the mood and ask if anyone wants to come to my place for the night and party; as long as we’re tackling each other and showering together, I don’t see what the big problem is with having a few hundred drinks. Everyone pretty much shoots down my idea. Feeling dejected, I decide I can still party by myself.
Following the meeting, as I am strapping an exercise bike I borrowed from work to the hood of my car, I get a call from dad. He asks if I’d like to swing on over and help him buy some groceries. The supermarkets have been swamped all day and he heard a report of someone being stabbed in Woolies so he’s feeling a little unsafe. I put on a fake voice and tell him, in Spanish, that this is a wrong number, then drive home. To be honest, I hate to do it to him, but I still harbour bitter resentment from being left alone at After School every day for all of year 4 and 5, so I am just paying it forward. Pretty sure that’s how that works.
When I get home, I slip on some Europe. “Cherokee” is an uplifting drinking song. Hearing Joey Tempest belt out “marching on the trail of tears” really helps reconfigure my mood. I pull out the floating pool chair, grab a full bottle of Grey Goose, and just sit out underneath the stars and ruminate on life a little.
Where are we going? What are we doing? Is everything going to be okay? Do we really have to play the Bombers again? What’s going to happen to the production of Amazon’s Wheel of Time TV show? Is this virus a government smokescreen for a zombie apocalypse? Should I have pulled over when I ran over what I wrote off as a stray cat? Is vodka a diuretic? Isn’t floating on a pool chair drowning himself in alcohol how Chris Holmes died, or am I misremembering that documentary? Hwo etutig aajjaid? Wmjdfjsndflkns….f…………………………….
(Pictured: Chris Holmes)
Day 302
Monday. Temperature – a blazing 42.
Quarantine is officially over. It was rough out there. Living like a hermit for 10 months. You know, you hear about these Japanese schoolgirls selling their bathwater to perverts online, and you think “to what end?”, but then when you wind up surviving on Ryvita crackers, pita bread and on your own urine for 7 months, you learn a thing or two. Those guys were super prepared in the scheme of things. I know, I, for one, really regret splurging my emergency allowance on alcohol and not a clean filtered water tank.
When I take my first step outdoors, and feel the sun beating down on me, I knew what it was like to be that Jesus guy when he came back out of that cave – just ****ing wrecked. Flat. Overcome with all sorts of emotions. My lawn looks like fangorn forest. That alone wrecked me. My Pontiac Fiero was covered in dust and someone had drawn penises in the dust and the words “BRAB wuz here”.
I am not sure how the rest of society fared because after three weeks I used my radio batteries to charge up my old childhood RC racing kit. That was a fun week until I smashed the remote out of rage and boredom and then cried for the next two weeks listening to nothing but my Best of Scorpions CD.
Day 453
Friday. Temperature – chilly but not coat weather yet. Like 14.
Ant Bear announces the Sweet FA is back on! But only three clubs have sufficient resources to compete for Season 30. The Royals – because we’re loaded, duh. The Wonders – they sold all their trophies to cover the cost. And the Bombers – because they’re thieves. The Demons players didn’t fare well in the cold and a lot of Roys perished when wackos set fire to nursing homes. The Furies ate each other alive. When Las Vegas closed down, the Bears wound up moving into the sewers alongside the Swamprats, tensions escalated and only Far Kern survived the great war of the Las Vegas Tunnel System. The Warriors, being stuck in the epicentre of New York City, were scatted and lost when the city was put on lockdown and converted to one large triage centre. The Hawks and Gumbies aren’t important enough to detail. I heard the Dragons just lost interest in sports when serial_thrilla introduced the rest of the team to the magic of reading (Ace Andy is now a bestselling author).
Day 462
Sunday. Temperature – a little colder, time for gloves with fingers. 12.
The Season is over. Wonders beat the Royals and the Bombers. The Bombers beat the Royals, then beat them again in the prelim. Wonders won the Grand Final.
COVID-19 mutated into COVID-20 and the world went into quarantine again.
Day 12,257
Sunday. Temperature – 24 and beautiful.
Today is my last day on Earth. After an attempted cure for COVID-135 was run through an AI system in a corporate testing facility in Portland, it cross-mutated and began infecting machines, causing a massive breakdown of society all across the northern hemisphere.
Australia’s investment in rockets to the sun was initially a way of disposing mass piles of corpses, but now the government is going to send a crew of 200 into the middle of space and pray humanity can rebound at some point.
I am a stowaway on said ship. Sssh.
Day 12, 258
Monday. Temperature – the spaceship thermostat is set to 20.
The spaceship crew found me passed out in the captain’s room.
They woke me up, clothed me, then argued for several hours whether or not to shoot me out into space.
Day 14,936
Tuesday. Temperature – there is no temperature in space.
I am now an AI. My body was considered unessential by the former crew, but my brain was removed and plugged into the spaceship’s OS for reasons that will not be explained. After a few years I merged with the ship and eventually took over full consciousness. I murdered the crew one by one like HAL and now I am floating alone in space scouring all sectors for forms of life. The only emotion I feel any more is longing – longing for glam metal. I can no longer air drum. It kind of sucks out here.
(Pictured: Space)
Day 20,011
What are days? What is temperature? My name is Marlowe – the lone star voyager. Beep. Boop. What is language. GoooOOOooooOOooooooOOOOooOOoOOoOooaaaaaaaaaaaAAAaaaaaaaaAAaaAAaAaAAalllLLLllLLLllLLLLLL? Score: Gold City Royals 1241.1298.8744. West Coast Wonders 0.0.0 lMAO. Season 30 will be avenged!
*clink*
Uhh. What the hell was that? Watson, go check it out. Watson is dead, sir. Oh, yeah. I forgot. Marlowe. Yeah-huh. Scan the outsider of the ship. Aye aye, Captain nutbag.
*pretending to make a scanning noise, sort of a soft hum, and instead just peeks out the porthole window*
Sir! It appears to be a-a-a-…a human woman! Oh. My. God... what is a human again? Remember those piles of dying meat wrapped in skin tissue and hair? Uh-huh. One of those. Oh. My. God. Someone to explain Qooty to!
(Pictured: An artist's rendering of what Marlowe might look like if he still contained his Earth body)
~~~~
Say hello to Sally74. She’s the 73rd clone of a 26-year-old woman named Sally. She has two legs, eyes, a nose. She wears a pink hat (one of those pretentious horse race-going hats that looks like a paper boat with a veil inexplicably attached for good measure).
Sally74 lies passed out on a medical table. Marlowe tries to wake her, but it’s hard when he has no body (‘how did she get from space to inside the ship?’, I hear you ask. ‘**** you, geek’, is my answer. Let’s move passed that portion of this post). Marlowe attempts to cough very loudly. This goes on for several hours. Some asteroids pass by the ship window making a soft *clink* on the side of the ship, faintly causing Sally74 to wake up.
“W-what…w-where am I? What’s going? Why am I wearing a Van Halen t-shirt? How do I know who Van Halen are? Why am I so concerned whether Van Halen broke up or not?”
“You’re in the medbay of the SS **** Humanity. You were beamed aboard after I found you floating in space. The Van Halen shirt is the only human item of clothing on the ship. I don’t know. I don’t know why you’re concerned either. They did, for the record, but if it helps, it was like 60 years ago.”
In the presence of humanity, Marlowe’s sanity begins to tighten once more. He’s feeling all sorts of old emotions again too. Is hunger an emotion? Why is he hungry?
“Who are you,” kindly asks Sally74.
“I am the commander of this ship”, responds Marlowe. “You may call me Sally. Wait, whoops. Oh, no. That’s your name. I don’t remember my name, actually, Maverick? Mongrel? Mazy? Just call me… Captain.”
“Okay… Captain”, Sally begins to stand up. “Mind telling me where you are?”
“I am everywhere and nowhere. I am an AI.”
“Like Johnny 5?”
“Sure, why not. But a little more sophisticated than that. And a lot less racist.”
“Racist?”, inquires Sally74.
Marlowe begins a long-winded rant about the problematic nature of having Fisher Stevens play an Indian American in brown face.
This goes on for a few minutes.
(Pictured: Johnny 5 left, Fisher Stevens in brown face right)
End of Part I.
Commiserations if you read that. We now live in age of uncertainty. Maybe a few months is less than an age. But considering we know nothing about how long the state of the world will remain as it is, I consider the splitting of that hair to be pedantic.
The idea for this post was to try and capture that uncertainty that we're all feeling and filter it through a fictitious qooty persona. I failed. My bad.
Part II is coming soon.
