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Non Sequiturs and the People Who Love Them
January 17th, 2009 by witherow
Tonight a few of my friends came over (namely Brian, Catherine, and no fewer than two Mikes, as well as sisters Molly and Becky) for an evening of homemade cookies, spiced cider, and a game that involved writing … what a great combination!
I’ve played a version of this particular game before, but it never ceases to entertain. Here’s the basic concept: each person writes a sentence or so of a story on a sheet of paper, then passes it to the next person, who—without reading what’s already been written—writes the next part. Each story, then, has six different writers, none of whom knows how the story is turning out until it is read out loud at the end.
So are the stories random? —Well, no, but that’s only because we have decided the word “random” is overused. We are now replacing it with the word “aleatory,” which means “dependent on chance or luck.” Which is kind of the same as “random,” but it sounds much more intelligent, does it not?— So the stories do end up being quite aleatory. Non sequiturs abound. And it’s really, really funny.
To help the stories have a little hint of structure, the first entry must describe the time of the story; the second, characters; the third, a place; fourth, an event or action; fifth, a motivation or reason for the action; and finally, a conclusion.
So here are some of the results. I’ve done a little mixing and matching, and I have separated the phrases of different writers with ellipses.
So without further ado, let the madness begin:
In the year 1987, when hair was big, jeans were stonewashed and any teen named Corey was an automatic heartthrob. … Bobo the Conqueror, overlord of the sunlit lands … was in the international foods aisle at Wal-mart … doing his favorite indoor sport. … “I admit it,” he said. “I did it—all of it—because I wanted the Everlasting Gobstopper. I know it’s dumb—but it is a really good Gobstopper. And it lasts forever!” … And so he went waltzing into the sunset, not caring where he was, or if the person he was with even wanted to waltz. THE END.
It was morning—you could, like, practically hear that Grieg piece playing, it was so gorgeous … Frederich Heimlich Gugenstein the Fourth, the amazing court jester … was in the valley where Simba’s dad was plowed under by the wildebeests. … A swarm of long-eared yellow locusts descended, consumed every African violet, orchid, and spider plant in sight … because the whole town was out of mouthwash and the aroma of gingivitis permeated the air. … The music swelled, the dancers swirled. Somebody’s toupee fell off but nobody noticed. It was the Grand Finale. THE END
On a day in the not-so-distant future, proclaimed “Obama Day” in which everyone goes outside and chants the word “change” until they are all confused … the Vienna Boys Choir (who were taking a tour of the lower 48 provinces of Brazil and were distressed to find there weren’t 48 of them) … were on top of that mountain peak that’s in all those inspirational office things (you know, the “success” wall art—well, anyway, the actual peak). … They jumped for joy at the thought of having their toenails surgically removed … because butterflies are priceless, helpless victims. … So they all ate fish and sang happy songs about bowling. THE END.
This is a postmodern story. It happened whenever you want it to. … Shaw McGillicutty O’Patrick the Hun … was amid the blazing tropical effervescence of exotic Murupaypay Island. The birds were singing, the lotuses swayed, and the porpoises had stolen someone’s pina colada. … He sang. No one listened. He stood on his head. No one saw. He drank an entire gallon of milk. That’s when people started noticing him. … Because it felt good, so he did it. … So he got out the cold roast beef, the cold ham, the freshly baked bread and the Grey Poupon, had a picnic and called it a day, ignoring the cries of distress around him. THE END.
It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. … Augustus G. Pfeffenroth … in the furthest reaches of perfumed Arabia … wept until he could weep no more, then got bored and started making squeaky whale noises using blades of grass … because his third grade teacher told him to. And he knew everything, even long division. … And then he was relieved to discover that the Boxcar Children were finally retiring after 180 years of solving mysteries, all the while remaining the same ages they were 178 years ago. THE END.
And then there are two story endings that I especially liked.
The first is compliments of Becky: “But in the end, it all turned out okay because Josh’s mom won the lottery and split the reward with the entire seventh grade.”
The other is by Catherine, who at this point admitted that she was feeling pretty sleep deprived: “‘Tadpoles! Tadpoles is the winner!’ cried all the characters in our story. Then they all went home and slept it off.”
Which is what I’m going to do now … sleep all this aleatory stuff off. THE END.
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