• View
• Edit
• History
• Print

Pataphors are a metaphors extended to an illogical extreme, creating a whole sub-narrative out of the world established by the metaphor. They are wholly confusing and useless literary tools, much like a sea-foam green fuzzy crock pot is a confusing and useless kitchen tool. Pataphors, like tacky crock pots, are often left alone at garage sales, never even garnering a second glance from the vulturous shoppers that all garage sales attract.

The rare exception was when one Lucy Maybell saw that pathetic tacky crock pot and knew she had hit something golden. She immediately took it and found to her wonder that the garage sale attendant was actually intent on paying HER just to take the thing away. So she did, and thirty-eight cents richer she returned home and immediately sprung to work. Meshing like well-oiled gears her neutrons fired until suddenly one of them slipped with a loud “Sprong!”

“Aw hell,” said a muffled voice, then a access hatch slid open, pouring light into the cog bay. “Cid, we lost #38 again.”

“I knew that one would be trouble,” said an old and weathered voice, like a blustery march day.

“Dearest, do be careful you don’t lose your hat,” darling soothed, as he held his dearest close, “t’would be indecent for you to be seen without it.”

“Oh, Darling, but were you to see me in that state, I would die of love.” Dearest held her darling back as fiercely as he did, as if the bitter winds of March could rip them apart, but no, their love for one another was as strong as the bond Gorilla Glue makes when your toddler plays with it all over the living room carpet and then finds to his horror he can’t move.

The sound that then results is something like a rocket launching off a speeding train as it crashes into a nitroglycerin plant. Take that sound and speed it up five hundred times, and you end up with the latest track from Screaming Droolers, the loudest and most annoying rock band ever.

“I think we got ourselves a hit this time,” said Dave the Studio Guy, only moments before the cold steel knife plunged itself into his back over and over.

“You may be right,” said the fidgeting lead guitarist, Guy Blackwell, “But first I need to discuss something with you… alone.”

“We’re alone right now,” Dave said soothingly, unaware of the fate to befall him, “I don’t have any more appointments for the rest of the day. Go ahead, shoot.”

“Not quite,” quipped Blackwell, with a pun that would surely earn him greater punishment in the afterlife than the act he was about to commit.