Blue Rewrites Cloud Mows the Lawn

Last weekend when I tuned in at midnight for another fun episode of "Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood" I was disappointed to find that, as always, the English dubs were moving at a glacial pace*.  So instead of a new episode, the entire show is repeating again, meaning that I won't know if (spoiler) Ed and Envy and that Chinese Dude can escape Gluttony's Hammerspace until sometime next spring, maybe.  SHIT!

Wait a second.... "Shit".  The reminds me of something...

Ah yes, a few weeks ago I read the most hilarious bit of fanfiction ever in my entire life.  Based on "Final Fantasy VII" very loosely, it was called "Cloud Mows the Lawn" and written by a person known only as Rasso (I don't want to know anything else about this author).  Whether man, woman, or robotic bunny riding a pink ogre operated by a Shinra Executive, either way Rasso is an undeniable freak with little concern for international copyright laws.  I'm going to spare you the ordeal of reading it, but if you must know what happens, Masterpiece Fanfic Theatre has a dramatic read here.  Trust me, its one of the funniest things ever, if you're not faint of stomach.  Also there is a chance that you may not be able to look yourself in the mirror ever again if by happenstance you get sexually aroused.  I still have not decided whether or not this story is just a joke or actually is Rasso's fetish, and I can't decide which possibility is worse.

However, as fascinatingly weird as Rasso's fetishistic story may be, I find that he greatly missed his chance for something of true artistic merit.  You see, I only wanted a story about Cloud doing gardening, little more.  As long as Cloud has a lawnmower and a lawn below him. that's all I need.  I loved the story right up until the eight paragraph, when it turned from lawn care to... umm, shit.  Also Rasso's writing skill is also... well, crap.  I think the real point of this story is the lawn, and it should be changed to reflect that.  So here's my rewrite:  (On a similar note, I already have a draft of "Balthier Cleans the Gutters" in the works and am very close to finishing "Terra Filters the Pool".)

A Boring Day

The following story was inspired while writing last week's post on Paradoxes.  In my original plan for that post, I hoped to solve the Grandfather Paradox by claiming that your grandparents actually were a lesbian couple and you didn't actually have a "grandfather" in the truest sense.  However, this felt like a cop-out to me because you kinda need to know who your grandfather is in order to shoot him.  So instead I spent a few hours sitting on my couch pondering a less silly solution.  Eventually it came to me that perhaps the Grandfather Paradox could be reversed:  if you traveled into the future and your grandson murdered you, would you still be alive?  In order for him to exist, you must return to the present and have children, and if that doesn't happen your grandson can't come about and so he can't shoot you.

Unfortunately this highway of thought led nowhere to solving the Paradox - which is why the Grandfather Paradox was not discussed in the aforementioned post.  So instead I found myself lying down on my couch with quite the burning headache and my arm reaching out towards the ceiling, as I desperately reached for the answer (who knows, maybe the literal action of grabbing might give me some unimagined insight).  But though I reached for the answer to my problem, I instead found something very different in my hand:  a story which had absolutely nothing to do with what I was just doing.  I'm not that happy with it myself, but I hope you enjoy it.

It was a boring day.

I laid down across the bed, looking up at the white ceiling.  A three-bladed fan spun around lazily in its lowest setting.  My apartment was silent except for the sound of my own breathing and the constant screams of the horns of the cars below.  The day was hot, even with the windows open and the fan on, I was covered in a thin coat of sweat.  I should have gotten off my queen-size bed and unwrapped myself out of the heavy blankets, to move over to the fan controls on the wall and speed it up, but I couldn't bring myself to move.  As much as I wanted to feel the wonderful breeze of the fan at full power, what the advertisement called "arctic chill", merely moving was such a massive effort.  Boredom had broken every bone in my body and left me a shattered empty shell of a man on his bed, as shirtless as I was helpless.  Thank God I was a male or I might have needed a shirt in order to be "decent".  The walk to the drawer was just as long as the walk to the fan controls, either one would have killed me.  So instead I put my hand on my forehead and let out a moan.  Maybe somebody would hear it and they would rescue me from the monster called Doldrums.  I doubted it.

Hilde de Hilde

We've created a lot of superpowers throughout the years:  flight, super-speed, mind control, whatever.  You name it, they've thought of it.  What hope is there for new magical characters if people cannot invent a new power for them?  If you make Laser Dude and his power is to shoot lasers out of his eyes, all he'll be is a Superman but with only one power.  No amount of "edginess" will make Laser Dude anything more than Superman on the cheap.  And it doesn't matter how many belts he has or how tall his collar is, he won't ever be cool or original.  But I think I have something here that nobody else has thought of yet.  This story is written as a history, though I can assure you nothing here ever took place, none of the people mentioned have ever lived, the places no do not exist, and Armando Sargasso is just as invented as anybody else.

The Following is a Selection from Armando Sargasso's famous historical work "The Legend of Hilde de Hilde, Queen of Heaven", a famous work in the Reina Hilde, and favorite of schoolchildren of all ages:

This is the story of a girl who needs no introduction, the Queen of Heaven, Hilde who as we all know was born on Earth in a town named De Hilde.  Before her birth, the town had a different name, but it was promptly changed upon the advent of its most famous child.  Nobody remembers the previous name, or even really anything else about De Hilde, only that it was the place were Hilde born.  Hilde's parents were named Madre de Hilde* and Padre de Hilde.  They used to have more usual names for the time period but they changed them when their daughter was born.  Padre de Hilde explained his and his wife's decision some years later:  "well, as far as we could see it, me and Madre de Hilde had lives that were pretty boring before Hilde came along... actually I don't quite remember what life was like before my daughter came.  It couldn't have been important, since Hilde wasn't around.  We definitely won't change our names back... we'd hate to offend her further."  A similar sentiment can be found amongst the de Hilde's families neighbors and indeed is in fact universal throughout this kingdom of my birth, which as we all know is called "Reina Hilde".  This of course means that Hilde's full name is the nonsensical "Hilde de Hilde" - though many praise the name thanks to its lyrical qualities.

Unquantulatable Quest

Once upon a time, I edited the Final Fantasy Wiki*.  Most of the things that I did there were completely boring constructive edits that are really not worth all that much mention.  Do you guys really want to know about the fast and exciting times of writing lists of "Vagrant Story" magical abilities?  Neither do I.  Honestly, the only reason why I edited anything there was in order to become Supreme Ruler, and then vandalize the wiki in what would be the most legendary vandalization in the history of the Internet.  However, since I made my intentions pretty clear (my other goal there was the most shameless attention seeking done this side of reality TV), the plan never really worked out.  Also I wrote a series of rather ridiculous walkthroughs that were less gaming advise and more tracts about how I hated certain characters, especially Vaan.  They were also the fifth most juvinile things ever written, and huge embarrassments to everybody involved (accept for the odd legion of readers who enjoyed them for some reason).  Eventually my tenure at the FFWiki ended in a lot of tears and a giant apology to just about everybody on Earth.

As you may or may not have noticed, things have changed quite a bit since then:  the Q? is dead, I seem to have finally discovered that the entire universe is not a giant joke, and I actually care what other people think when I write something.  There are probably going to be more changes as well coming pretty soon.

But old me was not all bad, at times I was even brilliant.  Just to show that I'm not trying to bury old history** I will now celebrate what I think to be FFWiki me's finest hour.  At the start of every walkthrough page, I wrote random bits of non-sequitur topics as an "intro".  For example, I wrote this for Page 12 of my "Final Fantasy IV" walkthrough:  "Happy 2009, Space Monkies! I, BlueHighwind never really thought this year would come. I had suspicions last year, I guess, but I also put them away as baseless conjecture. This is means that the theoretical "2010", which I always scoffed at as pure myth, may also become a reality. Weird."  Unfortunately after two years of this, I had completely run out of ideas for intros.  So I decided to write a short story in the upper margins of my final walkthrough, which conicidently was for my favorite Final Fantasy game, "Final Fantasy XII".  It was as I described it, "my epic space opera adventure, Unquantulatable Quest".  I would wander the stars every page and meet strange aliens in a search for truth in the universe, which I ultimately found.  So here I present the entirety of Unquantulatable Quest right here on Planet Blue for your reading pleasure:

Short Fiction: "True Love"

I think somewhere along the line of all my posts here, I lose something important.  Instead of creating my own works, I sit around criticizing the works of others.  Its certainly easy to accuse Stephenie Meyers of creating a horrible storyline - what do I know of designing characters, creating a relationship dynamic, and building a world around them?  Put up or shut up, I say.

I wrote this story about two weeks ago, and have been flirting with submitting it here.  Actually I've just been a little shy.  This one is definitely a bit more intimate than my other stories, I'll have to say that.  But what's the use of a blog very few read if I can't write whatever I want?  Here you go:

True Love

I think there was something romantic in my tuna sandwich. “When my children ask me about where I and my husband met,” I began to think, “just what kind of story will I be able to give them?” I hoped for something interesting, something clever, something funny; the kind of story that when anybody hears it, they will immediately know that we were meant to be together forever. Not like my parents. They just met in a singles bar. What kind of meeting with your soul mate is that? How special could your ‘One and Only’ be if you find him in such a completely average way? Such a meeting should be magical and serendipitous; something decided by inscrutable fate whose omens are impossible to see. That’s what makes true love so special. I like that idea. It was such a nice idea that I took another bite of my sandwich.

"Tale" From the Q?: Winner

Hey, Space Monkees!

Last semester I wrote a short, short story for my college's campus literature magazine.  I'll spare you my suspense - it was not accepted.  So, if just to give poor Hollander's story some immortality, I'll repost it here.  Enjoy:

Winner

After several panicked moments of hunting for forgotten quarters in the empty hallway of the shopping mall, Hollander finally found enough change to page the $1.75 the soda machine demanded.  With a moment of hesitation, Hollander debated pressing the buttons marked “A” and then “7” to buy a bottle of lemon-lime soda.  He knew that once those buttons were pushed, the point of no return would be passed.  He would no longer be able to hit the “change return” button.  Once that bottle hit the bottom of the machine, Hollander would have lost his very last bits of money.  The combined amount of all his assets in the world now amounted to just a few ounces of green plastic and the carbonated beverage inside.   But the dry feeling in the back of Hollander’s throat overrode his financial concerns, and he made the purchase.  With a loud thump, the soda fell to the bottom of the machine.

With his soda in hand, Hollander decided to rest his body on the bench several feet away in front of a men’s room.  The soda machine, the bench, and the bathroom were all off in a hallway away from the rest of the shopping populace.  Those people had money to burn on video games and scented soap and fancy clothes with designer labels, certainly the purchase of a just single bottle of soft drink would not be a big problem at all.  Hollander was not one of those people anymore.  Perhaps tonight this bench would be his bed.  It all depended upon whether a security guard would decide to confront him.  Hollander did not want to begin walking again today.  A long day’s march had left his feet worn and blistered.  Overcoming a weak sense of modesty against stripping in a public place, Hollander took off his shoes.  At this point he did not care if passing shoppers could smell his feet or notice the huge hole in his sock.  The sweet air chilled his ragged feet.  Feeling more relaxed; he twisted off the soda bottle’s cap.  He drank deep from the sugary liquid.  There was a slight tang of pain as the bubbles scratched his throat, and his eyes watered up a little.  Yet even so, Hollander felt for a just a short moment a bit at peace.

It didn’t last long.  The negative thoughts, the worries, the fear, they all would not stay down for long.  As much as Hollander tried to suppress himself - to ignore it all for just a bit longer – the troubles polluted his mind.  Now it was gone, just like his job, his home, his family, his life.  All gone.  He had been forced out of regular society, and now belonged to the bitter underbelly.  He was now a person that most people preferred to ignore or brush away with loose change – a homeless person.  Just how long could he wander the streets like this before he began to look like what he now was?  When would his cloths become tattered, his face pock-marked, and his skin dirty?  Where would he be sleeping tomorrow?  Just where in the world was he going, now that he had nowhere in the world to go? 

A more mundane question:  what time was it?  Hollander looked down at his wrist out of an automated reflex, but all he saw was a band of pale skin where his watch used to lay.  Compared to everything else he had lost, that watch was unimportant, but even so the loss of time seemed to hurt him the most.  People in his position didn’t need to know what time it was.  You don’t punch a clock when you are out living on public benches.  Time is a luxury for people with a purpose.

Hollander tried to wash back all these dark thoughts with another gulp of the soda bottle.  To avoid going through the same old mental exercise of trying to find out exactly how it had all come to this, he decided to read the wrapper around his soda bottle.  “Nutrition Facts:  Calories – 100, Total Fat:  0g, Sodium 20mg, Total Carbohydrate 28mg, Sugars 28g, Protein 0g, Not a significant source of other nutrients”.  There was a phone number listed for “Any Questions”.  Hollander might have actually called, but he had thrown his cell phone away days ago.  There was nobody left in the world who he could call anyway.  Nobody wanted to speak to him.  Instead Hollander took another sip of his 20mg of Sodium and 28g of sugars, and then flipped the bottle over to see if there was anything else to read.

There was.  In fancy cursive font, the soda bottle teased:  “ARE YOU A WINNER??”  No, thought Hollander, I am most definitely not a winner.  The bottle continued to tease:  “Check under the cap to find out if you are the lucky winner of ONE MILLION DOLLARS!!”  Underneath the caption there was a drawing of several dozen cartoon dollar bills sticking out with sparkles all around.  It seemed to Hollander to be a promise of unfathomable wealth and happiness – all the more unfathomable to him since he currently had none of either.

For a moment, Hollander went to look for the bottle cap to check if by some lunatic miracle he had won.  However, he knew all too well that these games were completely impossible.  It would be more likely to be hit by lightning, or eaten by a shark, or die on a roller coaster or whatever stock statistic people use to describe impossible odds than for his bottle - one of millions manufactured - to be the winning one.  For all Hollander knew, somebody had already won and the contest was over.  How long this bottle had been in the machine?  Quite simply, even checking the bottle cap was a waste of time.  If such sure things such as having a job and a house could fail you, then long-short daydreams like winning a soda contest were surely beyond your range.

Instead, Hollander decided to lie down on the bench in front of the men’s room.  He could hear the shuffling traffic of the many mall shoppers begin to die down.  Soon enough he heard the metal shriek of store owners lowering down their metal fences to keep out midnight thieves and vagrants – like him.  The day had grown late, and he was tired.  Hollander shut his eyes and tried to keep out the thoughts of his lost life so that he could finally get some rest.  But after ten minutes he was far more awake than ever before.  His eyes felt too big under their lids, and he wanted to open them.  When he started to look around, he noticed a mall security guard walking towards him.  To avoid a potentially awkward confrontation, he surrendered the bench and moved on.  Where would his tired feet take him tonight?  Nowhere, most likely.  The best he could hope was for a nice place to finally rest and leave his ruined dreams behind.

By the bench, a small green plastic bottle cap rolled along the tiled hallway before finally stopping face up.  Within the bottle was a printed massage written in choppy computer font.  It said only a single word:  “WINNER”.

(I was sure to ask later why this story was not accepted out of hopes of finding some kind of major flaw in my style that I am too inexperienced to spot. Instead I was told that the story was rejected because "Sprite would have made him more thirsty". I guess that means I bored them... sorry.)