Can we please have a story of Michael Voss' trade week?
Many lulz to be had there.
This on the other hand, fails epically.
Many lulz to be had there.
This on the other hand, fails epically.
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The Summer of Jack
- Thread starter Duritz
- Start date
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- Thread starter
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- #52
Bosk
Brownlow Medallist
Jack is really playing with fire there. Is he man enough to handle such a strong brew? I have my doubts.
- Thread starter
- Banned
- #54
Gilbert’s parent’s driveway had never looked so long as it did on December 1, 2009. Jack knew it was all in his mind, but the pieces of shaved bluestone that had always looked so welcoming now seemed to mock him, calling up in unison from the ground, teasing him about his inabilities.
“Peter Downing is much better looking than you!” they seemed to say, in their weird squeaky, stony voices. “And he’s going to be the heavyweight champion of Brighton!”
Desperately, Jack looked around, but thankfully no-one was nearby.
“No he’s not!” Jack hissed aggressively at the gravel. “He’s not a quarter of the man I am, and you know it!”
The driveway went silent, and after a few moments Jack regained his composure. After settling himself again, he stepped forward.
“Peter’s made love to the damsel!” squeaked the bluestone gravel.
Jack closed his eyes, his eyelids twitching over his retina. He tried to block out what he’d just heard. He couldn’t have heard it. Couldn’t have.
Jack took three deep, long breaths, and repeated his mantra over and over to himself, while rubbing his temples. “Calm blue ocean,” he whispered, “calm blue ocean, calm blue ocean.”
After a little, Jack felt better. Eventually, he dared open his eyes. He was in Gilbert's driveway. Gilbert’s parents shaved bluestone was in front of him, and their house lay beyond. It was all there, all normal.
Jack glanced about, but still no-one was nearby. He felt relief, no-one had witnessed that.
“Come on Jacky boy,” he said to himself, “we’ve got ourselves a race to win.”
Confidently, Jack stepped forward onto the driveway.
“The damsel doesn’t love you anymore!” called the gravel in a mocking tone, “and your Mum found your doona!”
“Noooo!!!!!!” screamed Jack in rage. He threw himself upon his assailant, arms flailing and palms slapping. He madly swept the offensive gravel out of the driveway with his all conquering arms and kicked at it in a furious, piston-like fashion with his future 1500 goal kicking feet.
Unbeknownst to him, but fittingly given his thespian genius, Jack Watts had made a pretty good angel shape as he lay on the gravel thrashing it, and it was this that Peter Downing noticed as he walked up.
“Playing gravel angels, are we, Watts, what what?” mocked Downing.
Jack looked up at him from the ground.
“Downing...” he hissed, “my mortal enemy.”
“And significant superior, Watts, what what.” Replied Downing, before puffing on his ventilator. “And I’m here to prove it.”
“Peter Downing is much better looking than you!” they seemed to say, in their weird squeaky, stony voices. “And he’s going to be the heavyweight champion of Brighton!”
Desperately, Jack looked around, but thankfully no-one was nearby.
“No he’s not!” Jack hissed aggressively at the gravel. “He’s not a quarter of the man I am, and you know it!”
The driveway went silent, and after a few moments Jack regained his composure. After settling himself again, he stepped forward.
“Peter’s made love to the damsel!” squeaked the bluestone gravel.
Jack closed his eyes, his eyelids twitching over his retina. He tried to block out what he’d just heard. He couldn’t have heard it. Couldn’t have.
Jack took three deep, long breaths, and repeated his mantra over and over to himself, while rubbing his temples. “Calm blue ocean,” he whispered, “calm blue ocean, calm blue ocean.”
After a little, Jack felt better. Eventually, he dared open his eyes. He was in Gilbert's driveway. Gilbert’s parents shaved bluestone was in front of him, and their house lay beyond. It was all there, all normal.
Jack glanced about, but still no-one was nearby. He felt relief, no-one had witnessed that.
“Come on Jacky boy,” he said to himself, “we’ve got ourselves a race to win.”
Confidently, Jack stepped forward onto the driveway.
“The damsel doesn’t love you anymore!” called the gravel in a mocking tone, “and your Mum found your doona!”
“Noooo!!!!!!” screamed Jack in rage. He threw himself upon his assailant, arms flailing and palms slapping. He madly swept the offensive gravel out of the driveway with his all conquering arms and kicked at it in a furious, piston-like fashion with his future 1500 goal kicking feet.
Unbeknownst to him, but fittingly given his thespian genius, Jack Watts had made a pretty good angel shape as he lay on the gravel thrashing it, and it was this that Peter Downing noticed as he walked up.
“Playing gravel angels, are we, Watts, what what?” mocked Downing.
Jack looked up at him from the ground.
“Downing...” he hissed, “my mortal enemy.”
“And significant superior, Watts, what what.” Replied Downing, before puffing on his ventilator. “And I’m here to prove it.”
I can't help but laugh. It's not a shabby read.
Ben the Gooner
Stand by Hird
Summer of George > Summer of Jack
Ben the Gooner
Stand by Hird
If Michael Hurley was a spud (not that that was likely) and this thread was The Summer of Michael, would you honestly have the same opinion?
Jatz
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- Sep 7, 2008
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not a bad read duritz.
quite like it
keep up the good work
quite like it
keep up the good work
I like where this is going.
Are you saying Duritz's perverted ramblings about a highschool kid is better than Seinfeld?
If Michael Hurley was a spud (not that that was likely) and this thread was The Summer of Michael, would you honestly have the same opinion?
Nice sense of humour you have there.
iamfredsavage
Debutant
Quality work Duritz.
Ignore the Melbourne flogs.
Lolz x 10,000
Ignore the Melbourne flogs.
Lolz x 10,000
Ben the Gooner
Stand by Hird
Are you saying Duritz's perverted ramblings about a highschool kid is better than Seinfeld?
Nice sense of humour you have there.
Can you quote me on that?
Well you asked if I would still have the opinion that the Summer of George is better than the Summer of Jack if I was a neutral reader.
This is inferring that your think the Summer of Jack is better than the Summer of George.
Summer of George = classic Seinfeld episode. I rest my case.
Ben the Gooner
Stand by Hird
No, that's you reading something into a post, which simply wasn't there.
You're getting a bit defensive about a harmless tale about Jacqui, aren't you?
- Aug 2, 2009
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Actually found this quite amusing
Not really. I just think old Duritz is trying too hard to create an 'epic' thread by blatantly ripping off Rebeccas Journey.
If it was original it would be funny.
The Summer of Duritz post sums this thread up.
- Banned
- #68
Talking dragons? Jack a knight in his wet dream?
I don't know Duritz. All sound a little too far fetched for me.
A story about Jack's first period would have been much more believable!
I don't know Duritz. All sound a little too far fetched for me.
A story about Jack's first period would have been much more believable!
- Thread starter
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- #70
To suggest that is to suggest Wilde plagiarised Shakespeare. Just shows the depth of MFC floggetry.
May be more later, if not definitely Monday night.
- Thread starter
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- #72
I appreciate that very much, thankyou.
More soon... probably not until Monday though, am away on a holiday for the weekend. Have laptop for some work things but not going to spend long on it.
If the mood takes me I make take Jack for a ride, we'll see...
- Thread starter
- Banned
- #73
Impressions are paramount. Check that, insurmountable. Impressions are King.
Jack knew this. He learned it young. When he was stretching to make a landing as a young Baryshnikov, he knew that what he stretched for was more than just an extra piece of floorboard. When he spun and held it on the tips, beyond that moment when you know you will fall, then collapsed into a roll at the absolute last, he knew they would gasp, and he knew they would quiver for his talent. When he raised his arms to the ceilings, lead bags holding cheap curtains high, waiting to fall as monument to his abilities; as he held his ending tight in his lips and in his thighs, he knew.
He knew.
He knew that to influence them, to impress them, he had to dominate them. He knew that in order to make his mark, he couldn’t be the normal boy, he knew that in order to make an impression, he had to be aggressive.
So it was that Jack looked at the screen. He glanced over at Downing, without moving his head. Show no fear. Downing was fixated on the screen. Good. Not sure who to choose.
This was Jack’s moment. He could make a statement. Downing was caught, lost, and Jack could show leadership, like Chris Judd at the Brownlow Medal, and dictate how the future would unfold. In so doing he could capture the moment.
Nerves flowed through Jack’s stomach and chest. His hands shook as he turned his head, trying to remain nonchalant as he looked. “Nonchalant...” asked a very small part of his mind, “that sounds an interesting word. French in etymology. Know what etymology means, Jacky?” the voice asked. Jack knew that voice, and he quickly smothered it. So many times had he smothered that voice that he barely cognitively registered when it surfaced.
Instead, Jack was turning towards his opponent, Downing.
This was the moment, and Jack knew it. He had to get the upper hand, he had to gain his ascendency. He knew the race was irrelevant, the battle was being fought right now.
“Donkey Kong...” Jack said, staring straight at Downing.
Downing stared at Watts, then took a reassuring puff from his ventilator.
"Bowser," he replied, “every track, including the Ghost tracks.”
***
Jack knew this. He learned it young. When he was stretching to make a landing as a young Baryshnikov, he knew that what he stretched for was more than just an extra piece of floorboard. When he spun and held it on the tips, beyond that moment when you know you will fall, then collapsed into a roll at the absolute last, he knew they would gasp, and he knew they would quiver for his talent. When he raised his arms to the ceilings, lead bags holding cheap curtains high, waiting to fall as monument to his abilities; as he held his ending tight in his lips and in his thighs, he knew.
He knew.
He knew that to influence them, to impress them, he had to dominate them. He knew that in order to make his mark, he couldn’t be the normal boy, he knew that in order to make an impression, he had to be aggressive.
So it was that Jack looked at the screen. He glanced over at Downing, without moving his head. Show no fear. Downing was fixated on the screen. Good. Not sure who to choose.
This was Jack’s moment. He could make a statement. Downing was caught, lost, and Jack could show leadership, like Chris Judd at the Brownlow Medal, and dictate how the future would unfold. In so doing he could capture the moment.
Nerves flowed through Jack’s stomach and chest. His hands shook as he turned his head, trying to remain nonchalant as he looked. “Nonchalant...” asked a very small part of his mind, “that sounds an interesting word. French in etymology. Know what etymology means, Jacky?” the voice asked. Jack knew that voice, and he quickly smothered it. So many times had he smothered that voice that he barely cognitively registered when it surfaced.
Instead, Jack was turning towards his opponent, Downing.
This was the moment, and Jack knew it. He had to get the upper hand, he had to gain his ascendency. He knew the race was irrelevant, the battle was being fought right now.
“Donkey Kong...” Jack said, staring straight at Downing.
Downing stared at Watts, then took a reassuring puff from his ventilator.
"Bowser," he replied, “every track, including the Ghost tracks.”
***
- Banned
- #74
Hahaha gold^^^^
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