Train Steps
You know what's a really fun thing to say as you step in the path of an oncoming train?
"Halt Iron-Horse, halt I say in the name of justice!"
"Oh God!" The pretty college girls will cry, turning in horror from your splattery demise. "He called that train an iron-horse; he must have been of Native American descent."
"What do you suppose the justice was of which he spoke?" The girls' turtleneck-clad boyfriends will murmur in their very-most sensitive voice, already trying to spin shock and grief into a blow-job or two.
"Shut up oppressor!!!" The girls will shriek. "What could you possibly know of his pain?" And their boyfriends will have no answer for this.
"When I hit the grill it makes a sound, thump-th-thump, schursh." Is also a good one, because it's always nice to be proved right.
"Good morning America, how are ya?" Is a wonderful thing to say as you step in the path of an oncoming train--especially if any Arlo Guthrie fans are present. They'll remember you fondly and often.
"Hey Daddy, criticize this!" And, "Checkmate Jesus, checkmate." Also happen to be two choice statements for the instant before impact.
If any of your friends are nearby: "So long... betrayers." Is guaranteed to leave 'em thinking. And, "Darlings I'm going bumpabout, see you on the moon." Just has an oddly pleasant rhythm.
And then there's: "I stand here now--GABRIELLE!!!--certain of so many things but not a single one that matters--WHERE ARE YOU GABRIELLE ?!!!"
Oh sure, no one will have the foggiest clue what the hell you're talking about, but they're gonna be moved to tears nonetheless--you can bet your ass on that.
Now, if you're the sort who insists on tweaking old, rundown catchphrases, I guess you could try: "I'm Jess James, bitch!" Or, "What does the cowcatcher say to the face?" But only if you must--remember, you have "Halt Iron-Horse, halt I say in the name of justice." at your disposal.
All Train Steps are Latigo Flint tested, Latigo Flint approved.
posted by Latigo Flint @ 11:24 PM
8 comments
8 Comments:
Personally, I would use my final moments to pay tribute to Tag Team's 1993 dance floor smash. Before I am espaliered across the choo-choo's frontage, I holler "WHOOMP!", while on the platform, a chorus of my illest associates dutifully replies "There it is!".
(There may also be a certain amount of throwing of hands in the air and waving them around like one just doesn't care.
Possibly not from myself, as I imagine there would be some degree of dismemberment.)
I usually just tie a damsel on the train tracks. But first, I check her pockets for an I-Pod.
No sense wasting one of those!
Seems a bit of a moot point just what the sound of impact by the iron horse would be, you're never gonna hear it again.
I must share with you my dark secret: Tragedy makes me smile. I cannot help but laugh at tales of woe and injustice. I am universally hated by cancer patients, double amputees, and office workers. Don’t misunderstand me; my joy isn’t cruel. It is simply that I can only feel a true sense of connection, that is to say, I can only truly relate to the world around me, when I am witnessing the savage games that fate so seems to enjoy to playing.
This is why I value your memoirs so dearly, Mr. Flint. Every story you tell has a foundation in bitter ironies, in epic mistimings, in crippling misunderstandings. Take today’s entry: on the surface, nothing more than a straightforward guide to effectively proclaiming that one has stepped in front of a train. And yet… every proffered line hints at a tale of woe that would make Sophocles weep. Treachery. Absent love. Justice denied. When you, Latigo Flint, shout at an oncoming train, the world knows that the gore that will shortly ensue NEED NOT HAVE OCCURRED. That is the sort of man you are.
I know you did not make a choice to live a life of romantic tragedy, for what man would? Nevertheless, I need to thank you for living your life the way that you must, and I apologize if, from time to time, my mirth is inappropriately expressed. You do me a great service, Latigo Flint.
You allow me to feel.
It seems that Latigo Flint has acquired secondary literature, a most beautiful criticism Mr Isaac.
This, then, will be the last splat?
This I have done. But my words were:
"With this ring, I thee wed."
I had to look up "espaliered" Greta. And then I sat trembling, awestruck by you and your word-smithery. (And you imagine correctly--there is in fact a significant degree of dismemberment.)
Always thinkin' LBB. Sharp, very sharp.
But Peter, that in no way lessens the triumph of its rich, splattery clank.
It's gettin' a little tough to see the monitor right now, if you know what I mean Isaac. That was, quite simply, magnificent. I am precisely that man--how glorious to finally have independent confirmation.
(Of course comments more eloquent than the post upon which they appear really piss me off. But I guess it's a small price to pay for immortality.)
Thank you for allowing me to allow you to feel.
You think Isaac writes better than I do, don't you Helga Von Porno? Go on, I can take it.
Why Old Hoss, you tired of me so soon?
Nice Monkeypotpie. I wouldn't know, yet somehow I understand.
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