|A Nested Rhymecrime Nightmare|
The dreamking said:
Now you'll have to kiss the frogs-
a confetti of burgher bits filled the sky.
Dreadful, to be smitten by
a plague of phyllobatic sprogs;
too much sugar makes you poison-fed.
I think I have to thank Tim Hortons for the, um, inspiration. The troll, who thinks all atheists should be executed, might have added the flying phyllobates. The timbits are punched from the doughnuts like confetti, in my nightmare. After which you're force-fed bits of your fellow man in sweetmeatly mince. I never eat donuts. The word burger makes me think of The Burghers of Calais, by Rodin. Welcome to the gates of hell. It's a strange thing, dreams.
And I learnt a new word, via this excellent article: Confetti Uncut, by D. Graham Burnett: Phyllobolia. Here's a snippet that my mind keeps returning to:
Throwing together was thus a good place to start the requisite crescendo of collective aggression that constellated human communities, guaranteed their continuity, and permitted some of them (and not others) to leave the marks called history. By these lights, phyllobolia always also said, “We are thinking about killing you.”
Somehow related: Even my children are doing the ALS icebucket challenge. Everybody must get iced.
Have you seen the two-year old doing it? That's my inner two-year old too.
(My Blogpress app is on the blink, so I hope the link works.)