I didn't feel like doing any writing, but a deadline was fast approaching, so I keyboarded a few simple commands and set my computer on cruise control to see what it would come up with. The results weren't impressive enough for me to fear losing my job, so I thought I'd share them with you. This is the state of computer art:
Hi, my name is Allan. Hi, my name is Bernice. Hi, my name is Conrad. Hi, my name is Delilah. Hi, my name is Eric. Hi, my name is Florence. Hi, my name is Garrison. Hi, my name is Harriet. Hi, my name is Ian. Hi, my name is Judith. Hi, my name is Kenneth. Hi, my name is Leslie. Hi, my name is Martin. Hi, my name is -
Wow! Humanity - what a trip!
Jack was a lowly beef farmer cum orthodontist before he met Jill, who warbled for fun and profit. It is not known whether they made beautiful music together (or not), but one thing is certain: nobody should every have to worry about the cost of false teeth. Meanwhile...
Sorry. Meanwhile, out of earshot, but certainly within ICBM range, Martin looked over the shambles of his life. Soon, he tired of such introspection, and decided to check out the shambles of the lives of the couple living around the corner. Moribundly, they were out. So, Martin, who desperately craved outrospection, visited his prurient orthodontist, hoping to look over the shambles of his etc. etc. Martin's orthodontist liked to keep his shambles to himself, however, and read Martin a poem instead. It went:
A light mite might alight lightlyMartin cried. Then, he warbled. "Oh, did I tell you," he asked, "that I brought you a rack of beef as a gesture of appreciation?"
Jack Anderson, known to his friends as "Hot Tub" because - well, it's a story too filthy to relate here - intersects tangentially with our narrative, as will soon become apparent. If I mention him here, it is only because, as any good storyteller may, I have momentarily lost my place. If you settle back in a comfortable chair, your best orthodontist by your side, I'm sure that the story will resume in a moment. Yes...yes, here it comes. NOW!
Martin wandered into the street, looking for a shambles of a life, any shambles of a life, to compare with his own. Eventually, visions of T-bone steaks dancing in his head, he decided to forego his unlikely quest and get him to a winery. Redundantly, it was two in the morning, and he found nothing open. On his way home, he bumped into a wayward gentleman who warbled, "Get the hence, miscreant! My hot tub awaits!"
Martin, duly chastised, went home.
But, tomorrow was another day, another dollars to doughnuts to you, you're the only thing you really need to know basis for a meaningful relationships that pass in the nightingale force Winds of War and Peace of mind your own Business Without Really Trying my patience is a virtue is rewarded to rights of Passage to India fine mess you've gotten us "Into the Night" of the General assembly line of fire from the hip - HELP ME, LANDRU! LANDRU, HELP ME!
Caroline stifled a yawn. Martin was boring her to tears with his tales of woe and mail-order surgery. Here, she had given Martin some of the best bubble gum of her life, and what had he given her in return? "Angst for the memories, pal," she said. Martin looked at her for a second, then continued warbling.
Caroline spilled the remains of her Great Canadian Mindbuster (Kahlua, Crème de Menthe and a dash of cyanide) into Martin's lap, hoping that he would excuse himself and go to the bathroom to clean it off, affording her the opportunity to escape into the mid-afternoon. Martin looked up, an obvious expression on his face. "Caroline," he asked, "are you having trouble holding your liquor?" With a brutal sigh, Caroline threw asparagus tips at him.
If you were to conclude, at this point, that Martin is something of a ninny, if I may use that term, you might not be far from the truth. In fact, keep going for five more blocks, past dummy and nincompoop, hang a right at poltroon and keep going until you hit total social misfit, and you won't be able to miss the truth. Now, if you were looking for The Truth, that would be easier: it's 10110.
Martin was a child of a broken home, you see. The roof leaked, and all of the doors were missing their handles. A lesser man might have crept into a deep depression, surfacing only for tea and the occasional orthodontist appointment (and, less frequently, a new book by Robertson Davies). Not Martin - he became only mildly maladjusted.
It's a sad Tale of Two Cities in Flight from reality, what a conceptual humour him number one-oh-two by four one and one for "All of Me", fa, sol, la, "Tea for Two" be or not "To Be Free"-for-all the way "Home Sweet Home" for the holidays of our Livestocks and bonds of friendship of state of the union address (be sure to include your postal code) of honour thy father and thy "Mother and Child Reunion" Jack of all trades in the off-season to taste the difference a day makes it or breaks it takes one to know ifs ands or buts about it's...Monty Python's Flying Circus of the Stars are out "Tonight's the Night" of a Thousand Stars in their eyes have it suits "You Light Up My Life" of the party animal instincts for self-preservation Hall Band on the Run, but you can't hide and seek knowledge is power behind the throne to the Dogs of War of the "Worlds Away" with you are your own Liquor Control Board game leg up in Arms and the Mannfred Mann "Alive and Kicking" of England massive heart Attack of the Killer Tomatoes are tingling
Well, you get the idea. A computer that can write is only as good as the human who programmed it. (And, as a computer programmer, I'm a great Chefs of Europe - Damn! I've got to find that loop and close it!) Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some programmes to fix before everybody goes home...
