Post-foibal Report, 07/27/06
Master Fob: We have just fobbed. It was fun.
Melyngoch: Tolkien Boy is neglecting to adjust for inflation while being financially melodramatic. The Marchioness is feeling neglected by a twenty-seven-year-old who lives with his parents and thinks he's Gimli. Editorgirl is neglecting to include overt references to backs in her poetry, although those of us with mad critical reading skills can find them there anyway.Those of us with mad critical reading skills can also "read" Master Fob's dessert as a "text" to make up for the fact that he, like me, neglected to bring an actual text, in the sense of words written on paper. And I have no excuse. There is no excuse for me. I have neglected to come afobbing laden with either writing or excuse.
Tolkien Boy: I posit that being mildly concerned about borrowing as much money as your parents paid for the house you lived in for twenty-two years in exchange for one year of school does not constitute being melodramatic.
While the rest of the FOBs (sans Edgy) are busy discussing the many, many ways that a male caller can be inexcusably geeky, and because I know no other FOB will do it with any sort of coherent narration (trust me, I read these people's writing), I will now recount the things that went on in this FOB experience, July 27th.
In the absence of his family, Master Fob and I repasted ourselves with lasagna until the arrival of the Marchioness, who came bearing tales of occupational hazards. In this case, the worst hazard seemed to be an overabundance of compliments given, so in complete confusion I wandered to Master Fob's bedroom and worked on his computer (insert your mom joke here) until such time as editorgirl (sic) showed up, bearing not only a beatiful poem but also a beautiful bag of Reese's peanut butter bites, which I eagerly and rapidly consumed.
The irrepressible Melyngoch, meanwhile, called the united FOB to ask if any knew of a transportation device that could transport her from her house to Master Fob's demesne, to which the united FOB expressed great regret that she did not call a FOBmember from the very beginning. editorgirl (sic) and I sped hastily to the Goch home, suddenly seeing what sort of girl we wanted to be after traveling past a big black horse and a cherry tree.
When at last the FOB settled, we read a short selection from my story in which an angel and a devil get drunk after a long day of work and get into each others...file cabinets. editorgirl (sic) then wrote an explosive poem (not that sort of explosion, Ms. Melyngoch), and reminded us all that a poem shouldn't mean, but be (or perhaps that was Archibald MacLeish). Finally, the Marchioness read us some of her emails home, in which she most emphatically did not talk about either diarrhea or vomiting.
Marchioness: I have learned from Master Fob, Editor Girl, and Melyngoch that before I date anyone that I must first ask if they play Dungeon and Dragons. If the answer is affirmative, I must run in a speedy fashion in another direction. If the answer is negative, I must ask other searching questions about possibly geeky, lack of social skills problems.
Back to the fobbiness. I really liked Editor Girl's poems and I enjoy that all of her poems fly, or have wings at least. Unfortunately Melyngoch didn't bring anything besides her wit and her need to know the redefinition of good and evil. Master Fob was also unprepared but brought strawberry shortcake. Tolkien Boy continued with his hellish heaven story that is devilish good fun. Whether you official decide that Satan or Bezaylbub (spell check) is the correct name.
editorgirl: Without Edgy here, I find that it's my responsibility to correct my wayward associates. I did not bring the Reese's peanut butter bites, although TB did devour them. And Melyn didn't call the Fobcave. I called her to see if she was coming and discovered that she was in need of transportation. And finally, we didn't tell the Marchioness to ask any person about Dungeons and Dragons. Asking may result in the inference that the asker herself participates in the game, which is just a bad situation all around. Speaking of bad situations, I'm going to return you to your regularly scheduled program.
Master Fob: Hi. I have decided that I should have the last word, and it is this:
Narf.
Melyngoch: Tolkien Boy is neglecting to adjust for inflation while being financially melodramatic. The Marchioness is feeling neglected by a twenty-seven-year-old who lives with his parents and thinks he's Gimli. Editorgirl is neglecting to include overt references to backs in her poetry, although those of us with mad critical reading skills can find them there anyway.Those of us with mad critical reading skills can also "read" Master Fob's dessert as a "text" to make up for the fact that he, like me, neglected to bring an actual text, in the sense of words written on paper. And I have no excuse. There is no excuse for me. I have neglected to come afobbing laden with either writing or excuse.
Tolkien Boy: I posit that being mildly concerned about borrowing as much money as your parents paid for the house you lived in for twenty-two years in exchange for one year of school does not constitute being melodramatic.
While the rest of the FOBs (sans Edgy) are busy discussing the many, many ways that a male caller can be inexcusably geeky, and because I know no other FOB will do it with any sort of coherent narration (trust me, I read these people's writing), I will now recount the things that went on in this FOB experience, July 27th.
In the absence of his family, Master Fob and I repasted ourselves with lasagna until the arrival of the Marchioness, who came bearing tales of occupational hazards. In this case, the worst hazard seemed to be an overabundance of compliments given, so in complete confusion I wandered to Master Fob's bedroom and worked on his computer (insert your mom joke here) until such time as editorgirl (sic) showed up, bearing not only a beatiful poem but also a beautiful bag of Reese's peanut butter bites, which I eagerly and rapidly consumed.
The irrepressible Melyngoch, meanwhile, called the united FOB to ask if any knew of a transportation device that could transport her from her house to Master Fob's demesne, to which the united FOB expressed great regret that she did not call a FOBmember from the very beginning. editorgirl (sic) and I sped hastily to the Goch home, suddenly seeing what sort of girl we wanted to be after traveling past a big black horse and a cherry tree.
When at last the FOB settled, we read a short selection from my story in which an angel and a devil get drunk after a long day of work and get into each others...file cabinets. editorgirl (sic) then wrote an explosive poem (not that sort of explosion, Ms. Melyngoch), and reminded us all that a poem shouldn't mean, but be (or perhaps that was Archibald MacLeish). Finally, the Marchioness read us some of her emails home, in which she most emphatically did not talk about either diarrhea or vomiting.
Marchioness: I have learned from Master Fob, Editor Girl, and Melyngoch that before I date anyone that I must first ask if they play Dungeon and Dragons. If the answer is affirmative, I must run in a speedy fashion in another direction. If the answer is negative, I must ask other searching questions about possibly geeky, lack of social skills problems.
Back to the fobbiness. I really liked Editor Girl's poems and I enjoy that all of her poems fly, or have wings at least. Unfortunately Melyngoch didn't bring anything besides her wit and her need to know the redefinition of good and evil. Master Fob was also unprepared but brought strawberry shortcake. Tolkien Boy continued with his hellish heaven story that is devilish good fun. Whether you official decide that Satan or Bezaylbub (spell check) is the correct name.
editorgirl: Without Edgy here, I find that it's my responsibility to correct my wayward associates. I did not bring the Reese's peanut butter bites, although TB did devour them. And Melyn didn't call the Fobcave. I called her to see if she was coming and discovered that she was in need of transportation. And finally, we didn't tell the Marchioness to ask any person about Dungeons and Dragons. Asking may result in the inference that the asker herself participates in the game, which is just a bad situation all around. Speaking of bad situations, I'm going to return you to your regularly scheduled program.
Master Fob: Hi. I have decided that I should have the last word, and it is this:
Narf.
posted by B.G. Christensen at 7/27/2006 08:17:00 PM
3 Comments:
Have any of you actually played D&D? With a good DM? The DM can make a big difference. I really like D&D. Especially when I can be a half-elk monk who kicks ass Matrix-style.
And that's why no man--scratch that--no FOB will ever love me.
Goodness, that coinage of 'postfoibal' was clever, don't you think?
Narf.
Damnation and hellfire. I can't believe I missed the next bit in the TB story. Figures you would do this the week I'm in Vegas. Sheesh.
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