Monday, October 29, 2012

The Over-Best

Prepare yourself, reader, for a journey that will take you beyond space and time. A journey that will uplift your heart, confuse your mind, soil your underclothing, and compromise your immortal soul... I bring you GALAXY Part I REVOLT!!!!

Imagine, if you will, Orson Welles orotundly reading the opening titles, Philip Glass music playing ethereally (with Danny Elfman for the kooky cantina scene), the theater lights dimming, a gorilla hand reaching for your soda as we start with the INTRODUCTRY CHAPTERS.

Wait, wait. What? You mean after the pictureque, the charaterization, maps, contents, forward, prologue, indices, and royal dedication we're still on the INTRODUCTRY chapters?!?!? WTF
Maybe I'm being too harsh. The story, being intergalactic and all, needs some careful exposition. We crucially learn that a distant galaxy, named Lapidary(!), is in fact the third smallest in the universe.
(Using a pair of galactic calipers, I have determined that Lapidary is to the left.) 
And in this petite galaxy, there are many "far-out" creatures. And many kinds of robots. What more do you people need? The story practically writes itself!
Beyond the expository genius of the opening lines, we find ourselves luxuriating in the rhythm and cadence of its prose, as if read by a slurring Orson Welles. Shall we add it to the pantheon? 
"Call me Ishmael"...
"Stately, plump Buck Mulligan"...
"'I want you sore, baby,' he murmurs, and he continues his sweet, leisurely torment, backward, forward"...
"In a distant galaxy, lapidary which in fact, was the third smallest galaxy in the universe."
Now that we've started with a visual, we can proceed to meeting our first character, George Cliod.
A galactic one percenter, he wears a diadem of diamonds on his floating severed head to really lord it over the middle class. I mean, how many of us can afford to cut off our own heads? Maybe if the galactic council would get off our backs we could go back to creating jobs and separating our heads from our bodies!
Necessarily friendless, George Cliod manufactures his own "maniod"s in order to have someone to talk to in his echoing crystal palace. While he very much enjoys the company of his maniods, he refuses to allow them to marry. Irony!
Play us out, George Cliod!
It's Raining Maniods! Hallelujah! - It's Raining Maniods! Amen!
It's Raining Maniods! Hallelujah!
It's Raining Maniods! Ame---------nnnn!
Robots are rising -Human's getting low
According to all sources, the street's the place to go
Cause tonight for the first time
Just about half-past ten
For the first time in Solomacas
It's gonna start raining maniods.
It's Raining Maniods! Hallelujah! - It's Raining Maniods! Amen!
It's Raining Maniods! Hallelujah! - It's Raining Maniods!

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