The New Adventures of Momo Murphy: Chapter 50

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The New Adventures of Momo Murphy: Chapter 50

Post by Furburt on Sat Apr 27, 2013 6:56 pm

A Paean to European Peons:

Attention European Peons! Yes, I know.

I understand.

I know that you have been ravaged by the Austerity Goblin, rooting around in your drawers and cabinets. The masked men from the east embarrass your Romance sewer systems and your own children look to America for guidance and hope.

Polyglot’s and golliwogs and semaphore and ricochets accost you on the street daily, demanding sweet euros from you, and the right to travel countries unhindered by directed radiation.

But survive you shall. Thrive, rather, into the unfeasible future of the human race. Long will the EU stand, magnificent and mostly blue with some gold.

Let me take you, European Peons, to 200,000 years in the future.

200,000 years in the future:

The world is much the same. Barren desert covers most of Europe except Norway (the bastards), but that’s fine because it’s fine.
20,000 years ago, during the rein of Palaal, king of corn, seven large heavenly bodies exploded within the reach of our fine orb and indeed, the dust did fall on us here on Earth and remain in the atmosphere in a big yellow cloud. With scraggly brown bits sometimes.

These heavenly dusts conspire to steal our remaining oxygen and spits back a chestnut, salty smelling imitation of oxygen known as Unifoofe by fashionable aerostatisticians such as Mark and Neboid.

This Unifoofe was not good to breathe, oh no, so we ran inside and fetched our blue gas masks with stars on, and awaited the passing. Those who breathed in the Unifoofe in a deep way were a nonsense after that.

The cack in their lungs would make them irritable, they would roar at the waitress for substandard pancake, ravage a builders, and untie a whale. Playing with child at home, he would always be hunched on the chair with the child in the air, hallelujah! But not for him.

The soul positive benefit of the dreaded foofe was the lightening of the body through deposits of humanoid dust left around during the infection. Sometimes 60% or more.

When the heavenly bodies above seize oxygen from the formerly fertile fields of the EU, it creates a dastardly wind in the places where the oxygen rushes to. This wind gained the necessary nickname of the Turbine.

The General Secretary abhors a vacuum, and so the wind rushes hard, burning uncovered skin, blinding cattle, unshackling babies. There are stories of boys and girls seized from cots by strong winds who have grown up in the sky, gobbling passing gulls. They have never known feet as useful, and would cry out in madness if placed on terra firma.

When the Unifoofe is inhaled, the lightness of the body allows a man ravaged by it to ride the Turbine like a man possessed by flight itself. Humans since the day birds got flying have envied them. Well now, with disastrous Unifloofe inhalation and massive loss of life expectancy, that dream was hope no more.

Hunter Barwick was the last man infected with the Unifloofe in east Norway, where he lived after stealing a farm from some Norwegians. As they shouted out in their tongue, his buckshot cut through them like sugar through porridge. This perfectly legal intrusion won him an EU medal of Continued Necessary Aggression and a free horse for his house. His peaceful life was to be ruined by his stubborn nature.

Many an evening he would outside himself to look at the dust. Smoke a pipe of precious highway markings fluid and sit down to a drink of quorn wine on his porch, idiot. Does he not realise his mask is far inside and that Norway is not a safe place to be when the Unifoofe come-a-knocking?

The Unifoofe descended in knots from the sky, one moment Hunter was feeling the jaws of sleep nestle over his head, the snakelike thick dust clouds burning with a gristly light, that stood out among Earth clouds and illuminated them against the blackness of the sky. As Hunter closed his final eye, the clouds appeared to drop ahead of him. The piercing demon of Solomon’s Sleep made him unable to react.

To view, but not to comprehend, in that delirious state, a man values sleep as more important. His eyes cracked open only too late. The Unifoofe was upon him, falling like barrels of air, bristling, gritty clouds burning with malevolence dropping as fog upon the green browns of the new Norway. He made it 3 ft before the dust over came him.

Hunter Barwick had now inhaled the Unifoofe. He began losing quantum mass, dropping dust at every corner. He roared at his mother on the phone to Preston to besiege her head with thoughts of dad, climbing from the grave, stealing a piledriver and returning to pound her into a spongy gunge for remarrying. His mother hung up on her only son, the first time she had ever done so, and called her cat over. Tracy held her cat and the Bible, and offered human and cat for the first time in her life.

His state deteriorated, his sister could spy him smiling as a Shaman in a throne of dust in his living room, plying himself with whiskey and throwing foodstuffs at his daughters picture, looming large on the tv screen. His pride in her presentation work on Channel Nothing had evaporated into selfish, incestuous hate.

His family alienated, Hunter Barwick stepped outside for a smoke of sweet highway markings fluid and a think. But not to be, his bones were thin, he felt them walking. As he approached his frozen yew tree, his bones crackled in emptiness.

Approacheth the Turbine. Lifteth the EU-man from his Norwegian den and commit him to the sky.

Over he flew the suspension bridge between Norway and Sweden, so vast and iron it could hardly be. It stretched over the lake of tar at a height as to make it inky irrelevance.

The harsh yellow wind surged through his ragged bones and attached itself to the frayed cartilage hooks remaining on the edges of the bones to lift Hunter into a life of air. Hunter spluttered and coughed, his lungs could not yet cope with such a volume of rancid air at once. In time, he would glean the knowledge.

The Baltic stretched out beneath him, and the wind carried him yet further.

INTERMISSION

Go back to your homes now, peons. Go back reassured that the EU will live on, and on, and on, until you and your families die out and are replaced. Take comfort in this.

Tomorrow, the story will resume.

TOMORROW

Awake, peons! The story resumes! Pull the sticky effervescence of sleep from your peonic peepers and pay attention.

RESUME

200,001 years in the future:

Magda lived in a house in a town in a townland in a county in a province in a country in a world called the world and the country was called Germany. Germany, or Northern Danube Delta/Nördlichen Donau-Delta (NDD, or Nuddud).

NDD was wet wet wet. Wet wet wet.

Magda lived in a house next to a river. Most houses were next to rivers, or over them. The Geschwind’s had an envious two story bridge construction, where they lived above a commonly used bridge, sound insulated from beneath, and charged a common toll. This kept them in survival hammocks and dusters for years.

Bastian Geschwind had a remote control Oam, the first in the village. He would set it to readable mode and cast his Oams above the landscape. The stories of ancient devourers of the 24th century would appear.

The flickering image of a devourer punting itself down the eternal railway, letting loose on the oncoming progress-trains would entertain the remaining nation when projected on clouds of hydrogen or Unifoofe.

(Dear EU-Foons, allow me to explain, the circumstances surrounding the eternal railway will be explored in a further announcement. Please, listen on)

Tonight’s clouds were Unifoofe, which lent the projection a sepia-soaked air. Magda thought back to her childhood.

199,987 years in the future:

Her teacher was a remainder of the Byronic wars of the past century. Mr Nobarrusorn was her teacher. He was missing 80% of himself, the rest was supplemented with cogs. He sat still in the special commanding desk of his classroom, bleating out orders, lessons and war anecdotes with an endlessly shrill metallic zing.

His voice was organic, but rattled from his ragged vocal chords through his cacophonous cavernous chest to become aforementioned harsh metal zing.

One day, he prepared a test for the students from his immobile position. Each was to process the other as though the other had committed a mass act. Any acts of anything that the processee had committed in the past year was open to evidential circumstance, and the children were allowed to factor it into their case.

Each was to interview the other until each member of the class had been interviewed. And by the end, zinged Mr Nobarrusorn, any child left who had not committed any acts to connect with the hypothetical act would walk up to his desk, receive a boost to their overall score and a slice of Uneingeschränkt-strip, to take home or eat on the spot.

By the end, 28 children lay dead, frozen in terror and accusation. Only two children remained, Magda and another child she barely knew. The child introduced himself. When asked his name, he buckled as he stood slightly and gave his name as Crowd Pleaser. Crowd Pleaser Albayrak, named by a vindictive half-mother. He had the sheepish sensibility of the perpetually abused.

It was then when Nobarrusorn ceased quietly clucking electronically to himself, and pushed his terrible voice directly towards Crowd Pleaser. He had not expected Crowd Pleaser to survive, This was not part of his idea for the class, and as a result, Crowd Pleaser would not receive the boost to his overall score, nor the slice of Uneingeschränkt-strip. He was to return to his desk and reopen his book.

Nobarrusorn rounded on Magda. Nobarrusorn beckoned Magda ever closer.

Being an obedient sort, Magda obeyed. Magda ascended the right side of Nobarrusorn’s desk, swathed in chrome. The light eked in from the shutters opposite them, shutters on all sides, lending the classroom the feeling of a cinema.

Nobarrusorn whispered gently into Magda’s ear, his shrill voice capped to the limit of its remaining lush tones, trying its best to warm up the discourse.

Nobarrusorn confessed to Magda that he was indeed Twiggy.

Twiggy had inhaled too hard on a night without a name in a time when the EU was beginning decline. Twiggy had become trapped within himself. Not only was Brian Millet not in control, there was no Brian Millet. Brian Millet was dead.

At first, Twiggy danced the dance of the Thousand Southern Dreams, because he was free. But soon his temporal gorp started. His lack of relation to the world of bills and phone calls tweaked him at first, but soon after, Brian Millet was laid to rest.

11 years in the past:

Laid to rest by friends, family and “mates”, with steel etched in their faces, the year was 2002, and they were tired of holding up his life, 23 human Atlases, 2,400 grams of hitshit through his inner tubes since the day he began.

Twiggy watched Brian Millet being lowered into the ground through a dusty portal and felt the hole close. After this, his temporal gorp became him.

210 years in the future:

In the years ahead, he lost the ability to smother a target with noticeably bad branches. His whisking was lost. His branches receded into arms. His trunk into legs. His body into body.

By 2223 he was a shrivelled, winking old man, parched on the side of the road, begging for death from passing Yeomanry. A passing thief named Daniel Barinboim attempted to smother the remaining life out of Twiggy. Twiggy, drawing him closer with infirmity, shivering realistically as Daniel tightened his strangling cloth and scanned the area beyond for complainers. Twiggy was preparing his ultimate coup.

As Daniel stepped closer, Twiggy kicked a hefty sized rock towards his knee. Daniel was running with fear towards Twiggy to kill him before the rock was even kicked, so when it hit him, he stumbled like a bumble-bee, badly, and tripped a good distance towards Twiggy. Daniel was not perturbed by this potential impact, as he instinctively calculated his trajectory while flying and deduced he would land on the old man. Painful, yes, but fatal for the duffer.

Somewhat perturbed was he when Twiggy extended the dish of his jaw using his last vestiges of Twiggy strength. He extended it to 2.2 meters across, and when Daniel Barinboim landed, he landed in Twiggy’s mouth. Twiggy’s throat seemed to extend for hours, and when a newly strengthened Twiggy reached Epsicot, a town on the French Fort Network that so bedeviled Super-Saladin all those years ago, he could still hear Daniel screaming.

Daniel emerged from Brian Millet’s stomach, in the grave of shame in the corner of the gravesite. Daniel had been shanghaied, hand-tied and bye-byed before he even knew what had happened. Brian Millet was no more, dust and marrow, dust and marrow.

Daniel, the fool unleashed, sat shivering in a hole with a corpse. His shivering accelerated until the Pale Parsley Hand of Death beckoned.

Twiggy was alive again, after all these thinking fits, he lived! Branches shot out of his sides and shivering, slithering death-faced old cadger he was was now who he was not.

In time, of course, the rule of law remains constant, and Twiggy was nae an exception. Daniel Barinboim, a thief perhaps, but a person, was now a missing person. Twiggy was now suspected, and ran. For Twiggy was not ultimate. In the past, Brian Millet had gifted upon him such majesty that with his tangible link to the world of broken glass and dog-offal, he could fuck through 10th to 20th centuries in Momo Thesis, with only steel bears set upon to stop him bouncing off him like tacks.

But now, even though Twiggy had gained strength from the consumption of the passing thief, it was only temporary, and Twiggy would have to eat, and eat, and eat, to remain eternal.

Twiggy changed his name to Nobarrusorn, joined the Eggis Whik Corps, and fought for 200,000 years on the side of the robust floating head of Byron, who with his eyes commanded the worlds armies into aeons of war. Nobarrusorn fought with edgy glee for decades and centuries.
Twiggy would be satiated by the endless flow of corpses into his mouth, keeping him strong.

Soon, Brian Millet’s grave was packed to burst. Nobarrusorn’s comrades thought him odd, how after a battle of 40,000 dead or more, he would not sit with them to boil their macaroni twice and think thoughts of pleasanter universes than this one, but open his mouth and hoover the dead in an endless line. His commanders acquiesced, Nobarrusorn’s antics saved them much in burial costs.

However, over time, Nobarrusorn lost limbs. His left leg, blown off by an Italian Nerd Bird Herder’s rifle in the Battle of Sexism Gulch. The herder had brought along only his hunting rifle to face the deadly legions of Byron’s request and defend his community with, and as a result had to spend many time after shooting filling it up again. Nobarrusorn, bleeding, had no such problems, and despatched a healthy bullet to meet him. Other spectacular incidents include the loss of 33% of his head to the glorious rotating battleship, when it was still a battleship and not a resort for unhealthily obsessed couples. The stories of his many other injuries were lost into shades of time.

The net result of which was that in what we would call 199,984 years in the future, he was contacted by his superiors and told that while they respected his service, with 80% of his body missing, he was not combat effective.

And so Nobarrusorn slumped. He knew that war was one of the few industries where wholesale killing is not frowned upon, and despaired for his ability to satiate his Twiggy lust. Without men and weens to chew, he would become once again, a shrivelled, winking old man. Thoughts of his years next to the road, begging for death, permeated his dreams and racked his daydreams.

The only job available to him was a teacher in NDD. And so Twiggy prepared his ultimate coup.

199,987 years in the future:

Magda quacked in fear as the dreadful tale unfurled into her brain. Nobarrusorn (Hereafter referred to as Twiggy, for Twiggy is what it was) patiently zinged to her that today’s game was all a ruse. The corpses of 28 children, frozen by accusation, would be more than enough to give Twiggy at least 30 days of full flight of noticeably bad branches. Full Twiggy, limbs and all, would roam to the port of the Geones, where he would find the Raven.

Here, he would demand access from the Raven to Momo herself. Twiggy had not met Momo for 200,000 years, but he was convinced his Twiggy eyes would convince her to subsidate him. When subsidated, he would remain full Twiggy for all time, fighting by her side. Brian Millet would then finally by irrelevant to him.

However, Magda caught his eye, and his Twiggy heart forgave her for living. He had planned to eat all the children, but relented before he began to allow Magda to help him.

Magda was made to shovel the bodies into Twiggy’s mouth. One by one, their slack limbs banging off the inside of his throat as they made the incalculable journey, the wind of their motion fading as they fell. 28 seemed like little to Magda initially, but she soon discovered otherwise. She was small for her age, and some of the larger boys of the class were difficult to move for her. Twiggy had provided a snowshovel, but the leverage was difficult. Twiggy however showed no signs of impatience with the girl, and awaited the next corpse with a silent smile.

Many hours later, the class was empty, and Twiggy satiated. Twiggy stood from the shell of Nobarrusorn and unleashed branches. Inner Death Tree Twiggy, who had charmed a million men to death and left disgusting spoiled wheat children melted everywhere, had returned. However, 30 days was all he had.

He left through the door of the school, leaving Magda shaking and shellshocked in the corner. Before he exited her classroom, he gave her a Twiggy Wink, and left. He was not seen by anyone else in the school, Magda was not found for another 10 hours.

200,001 years in the future:

Magda walked to her welfare office along the Nassenstraße, the memories shooting into her brain one after the other. Her town blurred with her tears, as repressed emotions flooded back into her.

The street sloshed under her as Magda, weak with grief, stumbled past the welfare office without pausing. She was lost, as the most painful memory flashed and flickered and became whole.

The final body was no body at all, but Crowd Pleaser. Crowd Pleaser, shunned in his corner, watched Magda load body after body into Twiggy’s mouth, slimed to the spot with fear, hoping, praying that Twiggy had forgotten about him. Privately, Magda wished the same thing. She had not known Crowd Pleaser before, a recent transferral to the class, he kept to himself and drew pictures of former UN General Secretaries in his jotter at lunch. To her, he was but a face. But although her friends, Sabine and Gunhilde, were loaded dead into Twiggy like the others, it was the most tears she shed for Crowd Pleaser.

The hours and hours of loading bodies had put her into a trance of grief and pain, shutting her off completely. As the harsh metal zing of almost fully re-treed Twiggy commanded her to load the lightly wailing Crowd Pleaser into his mouth. Numb, her tired, strained arms shoved CP onto her shovel, and listlessly carried him to his end. Crowd Pleaser did not react, or try to escape. If he had, he most likely would have been able to overpower both Magda and Twiggy, but his poor child brain merely switched to acceptance. This, more than anything else, grieved Magda the most.

She scarcely thought or felt as she dropped him the same place that 28 others had gone. But Crowd Pleaser, silent till the last, let out a wretched scream that echoed down the steel walls of what remained of Nobarrusorn’s throat. Already now, bark was beginning to grow where listless stumps once were.

The scream was all Magda could hear on this wet day in NDD. Her social welfare was no concern now. Her years of repression had given way to tremendous shame, which in itself gave way to anger.

She was to bring Twiggy to justice. She was to ruin his plans for communing with Momo, and she was to end his association with the Geones. No more would Inner Death Tree Twiggy be divine.

But she could not do this alone. Triumphant in her conviction, after years of slumping and shrugging her life away, she would contact the local Gendarmarie and have them send out 2 regiments in search of Twiggy. Since the Head of Byron shrank into the Small Head of Byron and teleported roughly away to the Worm Zone, his former armies had been hunted down by the EU in droves.

Their crimes on the battlefield and loud pink uniforms would go unpunished no longer. Many, like Nobarrusorn/Twiggy, had gone into the teaching profession after their limbs were rendered ineffective. They were removed as well.

But Twiggy was no mere Byronic footsoldier, although that would be cause enough for death. No, he was Inner Death Tree Twiggy, scoundrel of the old world, ally of evil souls such as Total Salesman and Itchy Dealer. The amount he had killed was uncountable. The Bellini brothers first brought him to world attention, and since then, nobody had touched him.

Thoughts like these bounced through the delicate contours of Magda’s consciousness and imbued her step with an urgency of purpose.

The stern brutalist blocks of the Gendarmarie barracks loomed into view ahead of her. 20 stories high, it dominated the tidy blocks of sunken houses beneath it and serviced an area 80 kilometres squared. Inside, the Gendarmarie waited for appointments.

Magda rehearsed her spiel against Twiggy as she closed the distance between her and the barracks. She would touch upon every aspect of his abuse, then tickle their altruism by reminding them of the sheer length of Twiggy’s reign of death. She made sure her speech was rational and non-hyperbolic, and made every effort to control her emotions.

Above in the skies above, a shape, a withered shape, crested the tops of hydrogen clouds and skimmed above the cloudline. The sun beat heavy on the withered body, and dips through the clouds were regularly taken, leaving it glistening with moisture as it emerged.

The body was Hunter Barwick, the last man infected with the Unifoofe in east Norway. Most Foofeens survived mere months, maybe weeks of soaring flight before the Unifoofe whittled their ragged cells to quantum dust, dissipating into whatever it touched, usually oxygen. But Hunter had survived one year. One year of constant flight and constant evaporation. The endless transferal into dust had left his body brown and creased, as though one had hewn corduroy out of beef. His face, once a sharp but chinless mask of intense intelligence, was now a mottled silhouette of itself, as though a burn victim was viewed through a heavy gauze.

The only feature that defined his face as a face was slight indentations at the position of the eyes.

Hunter Barwick was blind, that much was known. His eyes fell into the sky as he crossed over Belarus, 2 months ago. Whether he was conscious, aware, this was not known. The only visible act was the endless dips under the clouds and regular re-emergence.

Hunter Barwick was sustained by 4 distinct cartilage hooks, whittled away by the Unifoofe into sharp interceptors of wind. When a turbine raised up, it would hook under these protrusions and lift the Foofee to heights unbeknownst.

On this day, each of Hunter Barwick’s hooks snapped off, within a duration of 2 minutes. As each was ripped off with a violent crack, Hunter’s form jerked suddenly towards the corner that was lost and dropped in altitude correspondingly.

At 30,000 feet, the last hook snapped and freefall began.

Terminal velocity was soon reached, and the wind speed soon became unbearable. The fragile body of Hunter Barwick was falling away in the intensity of air, but what he lost was less than essential. Mass was lost, but not form, and Hunter Barwick remained one consistent object, plummeting.

Magda had ascended the disabled ramp of the Gendarmarie, an odd compulsion when entering public buildings that she had never addressed, when Hunter fell on her.

Hunter, although withered by Unifoofe, still possessed enough mass to crush Magda where she stood. She was provided with approximately 0.3 seconds before first sight of Hunter and collision with Hunter to assess her options. This did not prove to be sufficient.

The strength of the impact dissolved Hunter into nothing. A dusty residue coated the granite blocks of the disabled ramp, and hung in the air for 12 minutes afterwards. If Hunter Barwick’s family were interested in claiming his body, which they were not, then their chance had passed long ago.

Magda staggered to her feet, and continued walking. A small crowd drawn by the impact pooled around her, and watched her agonious march. Her thighs were splinted with bones emerging at all angles. As she shimmied in her upright state, her legs buckled and bent underneath her, forcing bones further outward. Her breast and shoulders were ripped by her ribs, and a large crack was visible beneath blood matted hair on the back-right of her head, exposing layers of crimson with flecks of white bone.

Using what little adrenaline her heart could pump to her, she opened her mouth to scream a regret, a regret for this bizarre turn of circumstance, a regret that cowardice, procrastination and capriciousness had prevented her from acting sooner. A regret that she could not stop Twiggy. What emerged instead was a stream of blood and 2 teeth.

Following this, Magda collapsed, moments before a Gendarmarme medic could catch her. She would be remembered only by her potential, not her actions. NDD saw her passing, reported it, and moved on.

200,002 years in the future:

After many days foraging and scrambling, branching his way through undergrowth, Twiggy returned to Epsicot. Although he could not travel its sideways streets without attracting attention, the many years Twiggy had spent here had imbued him with the knowledge of a secret route.

If one ascended one of the lower sitting, single story houses in the 3rd arrondissement, it provided an unbroken path of buildings, gradually ascending in height but always accessible, straight to the centre of town. On top of the tallest of these, the Firmamoo, lay Twiggy’s stash. Inhalation material, fresh progressive sludge, and most importantly, the Map to Momo.

Tonight, Twiggy would rest in a proper bed, spread his branches and sleep with victory. He would wake up in the middle of that same night and calculate with his compass, the distance to Momo. A meeting was in order.

Twiggy slept.

An Appeal to Recently Paeaned European Peons:

Do you see peons? Did this story impact you as it did me? The EU remains! For those in Whitehall and Bern and Oslo who said it could not be, that a federation such as this could not last the endless tides of history, to you I say ha!

The EU, through technological scholarships and well planned universities, has discovered that the EU is guaranteed to at least 200,015 Anno Dominae/Common Era, where our story ends. While the tale of Magda and that wacky Inner Death Tree were certainly entertaining, their narrative was merely co-opted from the future to illustrate the continued existence of the European Union at the time in which those events transpired. Rest assured, Twiggy poses no risk to our interests.

Well, that’s all for now, peons. Continue to respect your MEP’s, and eagerly await the next installment of EU fables, in which we ponder the Eternal Railway, the 24th century thought experiment slash Brunelian nightmare project involving the building of a railway network into an ever extending unidirectional universe. The devourers were brought into existence to stampede against our progress trains. More soon, children.

Sleep well. Sleep EU.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
This device will make me famous
This device will make me fly
This device will make me holy
This device defies all laws

Laws that are stupid, and make no sense.

Big Black, Newman Generator

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Re: The New Adventures of Momo Murphy: Chapter 50

Post by MilkyFresh on Sat Apr 27, 2013 7:01 pm

Dear Leader

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WHY MONKEY, WHY?
No one loves a prick,
No one loves a coffee sniffing motherfucker.
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Re: The New Adventures of Momo Murphy: Chapter 50

Post by Komrade Kharloth on Sat Apr 27, 2013 7:09 pm


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Μολών λαβέ

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Re: The New Adventures of Momo Murphy: Chapter 50

Post by Mr. Wiggles on Thu May 16, 2013 1:33 am

Truly the Lord Mountbatten interpretations are something amazing, it's beautiful! I'm listening relaxing in bed, I'm an awful reader who zones out and gets bored very quickly. (Unless, it's non-fiction for some reason). BUT! Coupled with the great charisma of our Lord, I am finding it nearly impossible to cease paying attention and furthermore, many of the great utterances are, I find, brought to life by the playful whimsy of our Lord.

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Re: The New Adventures of Momo Murphy: Chapter 50

Post by Mr. Wiggles on Thu May 16, 2013 1:45 am

Actually I would like to expand this to include the readings of Dan and Furb whose voices are equally buttery.

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Re: The New Adventures of Momo Murphy: Chapter 50

Post by PayJ on Thu May 16, 2013 7:17 am

MilkyFresh wrote: Dear Leader

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"Fix me a hot dog with jelly on
I've had cravings since withdrawing from
Low grade acid and cocaine bumps
I can't sleep at night or hold a decent job."
-Matt Berry
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Re: The New Adventures of Momo Murphy: Chapter 50

Post by Furburt on Thu May 16, 2013 10:41 am

Mr. Wiggles wrote: many of the great utterances are, I find, brought to life by the playful whimsy of our Lord.

I feel the same way myself, one day, I shall drag him over, pay him well and get him to run through the lot.

I will then bring it before Will Self and beg.

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Re: The New Adventures of Momo Murphy: Chapter 50

Post by Xandy on Thu May 16, 2013 6:39 pm

gay

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Re: The New Adventures of Momo Murphy: Chapter 50

Post by Furburt on Fri May 17, 2013 12:00 am

Very.

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The New Adventures of Momo Murphy
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Re: The New Adventures of Momo Murphy: Chapter 50

Post by Mr. Wiggles on Fri May 17, 2013 4:15 am

Xandy wrote:gay

*looks at the half-naked picture of Johhny Depp Xandus claims is his avatar*

And I'm supposed to be gay one!

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Re: The New Adventures of Momo Murphy: Chapter 50

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