some lives are worse than others but the stories are all the same

with a head in his hat and feet in his shoes he left the house, whistling a tune; he stopped whistling when he was hit by a breeze. that’s in short what happened in the first five minutes. then man joined the first queue he saw. people were queuing for all sorts of things, depending who you cared to ask. in the evening everyone remaining in the queue was arrested for loitering, the man decided to leave the house a bit earlier next time. due to an administrative error, however, the man was flown to an undisclosed location where he had to endure interrogation, abuse, torture, one civil war, two violent uprisings, a series of civil unrest and two general election, the second preceeded by a bloodbath during which the winning party promised to do away with all those responsible for the bloodbath, the only promise they kept after the election, which caused a third bloodbath and the survivors sent the man home. on return he joined the queue outside his house, he felt confident but was arrested again. the story gets a bit repetitive here.
is that a true story, said breadroll.
based on one, said sponge.

some incidents are just for nothing

i’ve never seen a heart attack, said sponge.
you mean someone having one, said breadroll. of course. the other day, on the train. that man just got sick. oh yes, disgusting, all down his coat. he took it well. until they threw him out. no, he didn’t like that a bit. he was very upset. ran after the train and all. and against a tree. no, he fell. oh yes.
i tried to use that in a presentation or so but it didn’t fit in, said sponge. don’t worry. something else will come up.
doesn’t really look like an office around here.
it never does. that the whole point.

some things happen before and others after

whenever sack wanted to be a bag he ended up looking like a satchel. there those who cannot, for whatever reason, tell a sachet from a satchel, but they tend not to frequent the places of sack’s bag impersonation. hence no-one ever said sack looked like a sachet when he wanted to be a bag. not that this matters much for our jolly wanderers on their way to the office, happily plodding along, never having met sack. yet still, some curious thoughts: did you ever try to impersonate a bag, said sponge. no, said breadroll, and you? no, said sponge, never thought of it. i was in one once, said breadroll. and, said sponge, how was it? don’t remember, said breadroll.
then not much happened. they went for a coffee, had lunch. what else? i can’t really remember. probably not much, as i said. sack got beaten up the other day, really badly, by some thugs who thought he was a wallet. they would have cut him if they had know that he was impersonating a bag, looking like a sachet or satchel or whatever. that’ll be the end of that.

the plight and sorrow of some

a young father of three was shot at after a party, a gathering of sorts, and a head wound appeared as a result. the entire head fell off shortly after, leaving a nasty stain on the carpet. many witnesses felt reminded of the recent warning by the government not to hang on to threadbare carpets. he had already lost part of his leg, and walked with the aid of prosthetic limb (which went missing ever so often) and a chinese prostitute (who always brought it back). wonders, reckons and reasons are out and raving to see if his head will be replaced by a plastic bag, as some say, or a nice cup of tea in the local pub, a solution favoured by most. a woman, who described him as a lovely chap, said he had to have part of his leg removed following a court order not to leave the room before certain issues were settled. offally does not need stories like that in times like this, said sponge, never did. sponge pouted. the man beside him did not. the contrast still did not make for a great picture. sponge always looks big in photographies.

we could do with some music

we could do with some music. we really could, says sponge. people are entertained, have a life. go into property. they go out again. going into properties the lot.
we are doing that, said breadroll.
not enough, said sponge, gong into property is something of a process, you don’t just walk in. there’s a strong spiritual side to it. some people just rush in and out of a property.
we could sell that idea, said breadroll. we could do with some music for a start.

some incident of lament and no escape

how do you feel about circles, dimensions and circles and seemingly same sensations? not good. dotcom. it rained. lightly but steadily, a constant spray.
we could all start with a narrative, said sponge, that’s quite something.
i think we’ve been here before. i must admit i feel so-so without a compass. and then with this whole book thing, that puts some pressure on all of us.

some minutes last for hours

there we go, said breadroll.
we didn’t move so far, said sponge. breathe in breathe out. that was a tough one nonetheless. who is doing the minutes?

to add some presence

fnnnn fssssphphphph. fut fulli fuff’d. horrosho ffffff.
q: it is better with the presence in my presence, is it not?
a: quite certainly.
to protest in an oldfashioned way block of wood shat on the stage, on stage literally, and they all saw it which gave the presenter an enormous boost in his ratings and made block of wood over night a celebrity.
they can’t get me out of this programme easily, he said.
they shall splatter head lice and incontinence ads over his programme for all i care.

and now for some music in between today

today in lights of the day, i mentioned it earlier, we present sponge of breadroll, sponge and block of wood with our queries. but now for some music in between today.
[some music you can imagine]
tough, said breadroll, i’d love to show my bit now and say it.
that, said block of wood, would be. he leaves us guessing.

© the Book of Sponge and Others.