That Screwy Rabbit
* * *
Fact of the Day
The lion used in the original MGM movie logo killed its trainer and two assistants the day after the logo was filmed.
* * *
And now, for your feature presentation...
* * *
A ring was emblematic of the terrain. Dim were the lights that affixed above the circle of men in a cheap chandelier. No windows; the doors were closed shut. All there was was a ring of men propped up in wooden stools. Diversity was among them; black to white, latino to oriental. They sat amidst one another as a brotherhood.
The Society of Friends.
A man rose; no younger than thirty and wore his dirty blond hair cut close to his face. Twelve o'clock shadow coasted his jawline; he was clad in a simple hoody and jeans.
Man:
"Hello. My name is Jacob. I'm thirty-two and I'm an engineer. I'm a big sports fan and I have two beautiful daughters. I originally come from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Someday, I want to... um... open my own business."
Judging by the last sentence's context, it's obvious that the particular introductory exercise that they're undergoing forces the men to end with 'someday, I want to'.
Nodding to one another, the men began to clap as Jacob sat down in his stool. When the clapping simmered down, an older gent with a head of receding white hair and a bushy white beard glanced over at a young man sitting as though he were posing for a Playgirl photo shoot on his stool.
The lad donned a royal blue t-shirt with the Superman symbol on his chest with a pair of acid washed white jeans and a pair of 3D glasses.
Older Gent:
"I believe it is your turn."
The young man's head curved in such a way that the dim light from the above chandelier shined down behind his 3D glasses and reflected from the opaque around his blue-green eyes. An almost imperceptible smirk etched on his face as the golden haired youth rose from his seat and swiped a speck of dust from the shoulder portion of his Superman t-shirt.
Easily recognized as the King of Hearts, the ever zany Ripplemagne cleared his throat as the men around him all had their eyes on the young lad.
Ripplemagne:
"How' y'all doin'? My name is Ripplemagne. I will be twenty on September, the 28th. I'm a professional wrestler and someday, I'm going to change the world. That is all."
There was a brief pause amongst the men as the lad lowered himself into the seat and reassembled his posey sit-downy business. After a moment, the men awkwardly clapped for the young man. When it settled down again, the older gentlemen uncrossed his arms to reveal a name tag that read "Kordon", which was probably his last name.
Kordon:
"Interesting. The exercise was to say 'someday, I want to'. You changed it to 'someday, I'm going to'. Care to elaborate?"
Glancing around, the young man sat up and rubbed his girly hands together and smirked. Removing his 3D glasses politely and sliding them in his jeans pocket, he surveyed the scene before speaking.
Ripplemagne:
"You mentioned the key word before. Before I spoke, you started off by saying 'I believe'. Such is the essence of any man of faith, which I think it's fair to say that we all are as attested by the fact that we're all here at this men's meeting for the Society of Friends, ye?"
Kordon:
"This is true, my friend. But the good book tells us to be humble in ourselves."
Ripplemagne:
"The good book tells us not to let pride cloud our judgment and to not deify ourselves. Modern translations pervert this concept into making society a collective conglomerate of soulless drones too frightened to take action. Matthew 21:21 tells us that Yeshua stated, 'I tell you the truth, if you have faith and do not doubt -- not only can you do what was done to the fig tree, but also you can say to this mountain: Go, throw yourself into the sea. And it will be done.'"
Kordon:
"It is good to believe. But one must be sure not to put themselves on a pedestal."
Ripplemagne:
"It's not putting oneself on a pedestal to be candid about their own abilities. Too often do people underestimate, downplay and ignore the true strength of a man's will. Disbelief in one's own abilities is its own self-fulfilling prophecy; stagnating the vast expanses their their limbs can reach."
There were a few men in the circle who seemed a little weirded out by the young man and others who rolled their eyes at the optimism of the young man. A young man's optimism, they thought. Optimism that no man who has truly lived life can have.
Ripplemagne:
"In school, they used to tell me 'the skies the limit'; a front for the fact that their ultimate 'academic' ends were to make me an institutionalized slave. It was meant to induce hope that we can go far, but the context was misleading, for any limit -- including that of the stars beyond the sky... is still a limit.
But the skies are the limit as far as they will tell you. It's the perfect analogy to demonstrate what they wish of you. That you soar... but only within the confined space that they set. Soar to the sky... but never farther. Thrive in our system... but never on your own.
You think it's a coincidence that my childhood was spent on Welbutrin and Ridilin and every other artificial neurotransmitter in creation? Clearly, something is wrong with me and not the system, right?"
At this point, a few eyebrows raised as he veered off course and cackled to himself in a sinister fashion that sent chills up and down the spines of the men in attendance. A few men, feeling that the zany lad was possessed, even walked out.
Ripplemagne:
"I can't tell you how many people I know in college, having their knowledge spoon fed to them. They've spent their lives under rigid dictums, being told who to be, how to act, how to think and what to think. Sure, they get a 4.0 and have it easier in some areas, but what I'm saying right this second will be lost on them. God forbid any of them have any knowledge of what a 'self-fulfilling prophecy' even is; God forbid we even teach them that the New Deal actually prolonged the Great Depression by seven years rather than saved us from it.
They're trained to take orders rather than to thrive."
Kordon:
"Young man, do you deny that you are without weaknesses?"
Ripplemagne:
"As I said, my confidence is a byproduct of candor; not blind optimism. I see the world in all of its glory because it is; not because I train myself to. The same is to be said about the infamous Ripplemagne, himself...."
Before the conversation could continue, static overrode the feed as the shot blacked out...
* * *
Before a green screen was the Patriarch of Pretty in the same attire as before, but with the addition of a glittering pink yarmulke. Pretentiously saluting the camera, Ripplemagne steps forward with the steps of the Lincoln Memorial superimposed into the background. Immediately, the image morphs into a 3-dimensional rendition of the stairway to heaven. In the skies above the stairway to heaven are clips of both Ripplemagne and Ryan Corey in the ring in some of their most epic bouts; Ripplemagne on the left side of the screen, Ryan Corey on the right.
Ripplemagne:
"Would just like to say a little diddy. Ryan Matthews, I got'cha numba', brah. You and me is gonna dance all ova' dis peace like ou-shalala ooooou! Baby, baby, baby, we is go--"
Behind the camera is a familiar voice, but one we haven't been graced with on Your Feature Presentation. Accented by an Eastern European dialect was a young woman's voice chiming in with great certainty.
Lina Zalizati:
"Ryan Corey. You are fight Ryan Corey."
Ripplemagne:
"...What? God damn it. I had an entire speech laid out, deconstructing Ryan Matthews' existence. Who the fuck is Ryan Corey?"
Lina Zalizati:
"I gather that Ryan Corey are a Christian and has much championship experienc--"
Ripplemagne:
"Durk da durk durk durk!?"
Lina Zalizati:
"Hey! You are one who needs me to do manage stuff! I do not want to hear durks!"
Ripplemagne:
"Durka durka jer Ick glockma, you say?"
Lina Zalizati:
"I hate you!"
Ripplemagne:
"Excellent. Actually, isn't Ryan Corey that chico who be gettin' his ass kicked by mah nigga Cage? Aw ye. A'ight, a'ight. I ain't got nothin' bad to say 'bout the guy. He's a little boring, what wit' the whole 'Ayo, I'mma former world champion, a former this, a former that', but in different circumstances, de Magne and dis nigga could probably shoot a game o' pool together, y'know?"
Behind him, the two side by side clips of the two men in their matches merge into a very heavily edited mock battle between the two. Transparent in the sky, Ryan Corey and Ripplemagne clash as the scene of the stairway to Heaven downward spirals and takes a bungee jump down through the Heavens to the depths of Hell below.
Smoldering ash and brimstone ignites around them as the two men lock in an immortal showdown.
Ripplemagne:
"Ayo, check it. De Magne is oh-so pleasantly aware of the delectable factoid that some'a y'all nignogs is havin' trouble dishin' up some material to rip on the Ripplemagne with. The novelty of 'Nipplemagnet' and the fact that I tell jokes can only take ya so far, ya feel me? So, the Ripplemagne was sitting at home one day, hoping that someone would present some pleasant mockery of the Ripplemagne that the Patriarch of Pretty could actually call novel and amusing.
Naturally, I was drove to drink and thought, 'Do I have to do everything for you kids?' The answer was a riveting aye. So, the King of Hearts has decided to put you all on notice. Ja ready?
Ayo, I wear cherry chapstick.
I shave around, up and down my legs and all around my dick.
I fluff my hair more times a day than Gabriella at a male teibol club.
My eyebrows are thinner than ya pencil dick, bub.
Like Johnny Bravo, I lack that muy machismo to call myself pretty.
All that metro gives me the giddy to bust a nut in ya bitty.
I did get pinned by Eden Black.
Even, in the process, copped a feel of her rack.
I did lose to Dan Hayter fair and square.
Got back up; let the whole world see I got a pair.
Yeah, I was raised by a single mother.
She did a better damn job than any other.
My pops did walk out; dabbled with niggas more fucked up than Charles Manson.
So, what I look like Chris Hansen?
Maybe a little o' La Roux.
Ya girl still dig the doo.
Who knows?
That cueball mother fucker probably pulls pork, so just listen to this polyphonic prose.
Point is, I'm low-income.
I was that little nigga in the back of class that you stayed away from.
My garb was Shady and M.O. was the fist.
Nowadays, you'll be hard pressed to find me pissed.
ADD, ADHD, Depression.
All this regression.
Teens was a clusterfuck of names and faces.
An identity in different places.
Fundamentalism and abstinence.
Surely wasn't on the fence.
The last year's been a nightmare with my head held high.
You'd break down and cry.
Up in the Heavens above are babies Olivia and Alessandra.
The padded room is pepped for that pasha.
They're dying; they're all fucking dying.
If I told you it didn't matter, I'd be lying.
Scratch the surface.
Come and resurface.
Throw down and I'mma wee ectomorph.
In the ring, I look like a red nosed dwarf.
Ya biceps are probably bigger than my torso.
Maybe if I ate my broccoli, I'd have seen the day to grow.
Check it, I ain't in orbit.
See me do a 630 Senton?
See me with a caste on.
My shit's fragile, mane.
The littlest offset sends blood from my vein.
I got the attention span of a lima bean.
The focus of a collard green.
I'll give you all the ammo you need and you still can't figure out how to pull the trigger.
You're about as useful as a bouncing Tigger.
Anything you can say has made me the person I am today, you see.
So, go ahead and tell these people something they don't know about me."
The nod to 8 Mile was complete as Ripplemagne grinned and stepped from the scene abruptly.
* * *
Fin.
* * *
Fact of the Day
The lion used in the original MGM movie logo killed its trainer and two assistants the day after the logo was filmed.
* * *
And now, for your feature presentation...
* * *
A ring was emblematic of the terrain. Dim were the lights that affixed above the circle of men in a cheap chandelier. No windows; the doors were closed shut. All there was was a ring of men propped up in wooden stools. Diversity was among them; black to white, latino to oriental. They sat amidst one another as a brotherhood.
The Society of Friends.
A man rose; no younger than thirty and wore his dirty blond hair cut close to his face. Twelve o'clock shadow coasted his jawline; he was clad in a simple hoody and jeans.
Man:
"Hello. My name is Jacob. I'm thirty-two and I'm an engineer. I'm a big sports fan and I have two beautiful daughters. I originally come from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Someday, I want to... um... open my own business."
Judging by the last sentence's context, it's obvious that the particular introductory exercise that they're undergoing forces the men to end with 'someday, I want to'.
Nodding to one another, the men began to clap as Jacob sat down in his stool. When the clapping simmered down, an older gent with a head of receding white hair and a bushy white beard glanced over at a young man sitting as though he were posing for a Playgirl photo shoot on his stool.
The lad donned a royal blue t-shirt with the Superman symbol on his chest with a pair of acid washed white jeans and a pair of 3D glasses.
Older Gent:
"I believe it is your turn."
The young man's head curved in such a way that the dim light from the above chandelier shined down behind his 3D glasses and reflected from the opaque around his blue-green eyes. An almost imperceptible smirk etched on his face as the golden haired youth rose from his seat and swiped a speck of dust from the shoulder portion of his Superman t-shirt.
Easily recognized as the King of Hearts, the ever zany Ripplemagne cleared his throat as the men around him all had their eyes on the young lad.
Ripplemagne:
"How' y'all doin'? My name is Ripplemagne. I will be twenty on September, the 28th. I'm a professional wrestler and someday, I'm going to change the world. That is all."
There was a brief pause amongst the men as the lad lowered himself into the seat and reassembled his posey sit-downy business. After a moment, the men awkwardly clapped for the young man. When it settled down again, the older gentlemen uncrossed his arms to reveal a name tag that read "Kordon", which was probably his last name.
Kordon:
"Interesting. The exercise was to say 'someday, I want to'. You changed it to 'someday, I'm going to'. Care to elaborate?"
Glancing around, the young man sat up and rubbed his girly hands together and smirked. Removing his 3D glasses politely and sliding them in his jeans pocket, he surveyed the scene before speaking.
Ripplemagne:
"You mentioned the key word before. Before I spoke, you started off by saying 'I believe'. Such is the essence of any man of faith, which I think it's fair to say that we all are as attested by the fact that we're all here at this men's meeting for the Society of Friends, ye?"
Kordon:
"This is true, my friend. But the good book tells us to be humble in ourselves."
Ripplemagne:
"The good book tells us not to let pride cloud our judgment and to not deify ourselves. Modern translations pervert this concept into making society a collective conglomerate of soulless drones too frightened to take action. Matthew 21:21 tells us that Yeshua stated, 'I tell you the truth, if you have faith and do not doubt -- not only can you do what was done to the fig tree, but also you can say to this mountain: Go, throw yourself into the sea. And it will be done.'"
Kordon:
"It is good to believe. But one must be sure not to put themselves on a pedestal."
Ripplemagne:
"It's not putting oneself on a pedestal to be candid about their own abilities. Too often do people underestimate, downplay and ignore the true strength of a man's will. Disbelief in one's own abilities is its own self-fulfilling prophecy; stagnating the vast expanses their their limbs can reach."
There were a few men in the circle who seemed a little weirded out by the young man and others who rolled their eyes at the optimism of the young man. A young man's optimism, they thought. Optimism that no man who has truly lived life can have.
Ripplemagne:
"In school, they used to tell me 'the skies the limit'; a front for the fact that their ultimate 'academic' ends were to make me an institutionalized slave. It was meant to induce hope that we can go far, but the context was misleading, for any limit -- including that of the stars beyond the sky... is still a limit.
But the skies are the limit as far as they will tell you. It's the perfect analogy to demonstrate what they wish of you. That you soar... but only within the confined space that they set. Soar to the sky... but never farther. Thrive in our system... but never on your own.
You think it's a coincidence that my childhood was spent on Welbutrin and Ridilin and every other artificial neurotransmitter in creation? Clearly, something is wrong with me and not the system, right?"
At this point, a few eyebrows raised as he veered off course and cackled to himself in a sinister fashion that sent chills up and down the spines of the men in attendance. A few men, feeling that the zany lad was possessed, even walked out.
Ripplemagne:
"I can't tell you how many people I know in college, having their knowledge spoon fed to them. They've spent their lives under rigid dictums, being told who to be, how to act, how to think and what to think. Sure, they get a 4.0 and have it easier in some areas, but what I'm saying right this second will be lost on them. God forbid any of them have any knowledge of what a 'self-fulfilling prophecy' even is; God forbid we even teach them that the New Deal actually prolonged the Great Depression by seven years rather than saved us from it.
They're trained to take orders rather than to thrive."
Kordon:
"Young man, do you deny that you are without weaknesses?"
Ripplemagne:
"As I said, my confidence is a byproduct of candor; not blind optimism. I see the world in all of its glory because it is; not because I train myself to. The same is to be said about the infamous Ripplemagne, himself...."
Before the conversation could continue, static overrode the feed as the shot blacked out...
* * *
Before a green screen was the Patriarch of Pretty in the same attire as before, but with the addition of a glittering pink yarmulke. Pretentiously saluting the camera, Ripplemagne steps forward with the steps of the Lincoln Memorial superimposed into the background. Immediately, the image morphs into a 3-dimensional rendition of the stairway to heaven. In the skies above the stairway to heaven are clips of both Ripplemagne and Ryan Corey in the ring in some of their most epic bouts; Ripplemagne on the left side of the screen, Ryan Corey on the right.
Ripplemagne:
"Would just like to say a little diddy. Ryan Matthews, I got'cha numba', brah. You and me is gonna dance all ova' dis peace like ou-shalala ooooou! Baby, baby, baby, we is go--"
Behind the camera is a familiar voice, but one we haven't been graced with on Your Feature Presentation. Accented by an Eastern European dialect was a young woman's voice chiming in with great certainty.
Lina Zalizati:
"Ryan Corey. You are fight Ryan Corey."
Ripplemagne:
"...What? God damn it. I had an entire speech laid out, deconstructing Ryan Matthews' existence. Who the fuck is Ryan Corey?"
Lina Zalizati:
"I gather that Ryan Corey are a Christian and has much championship experienc--"
Ripplemagne:
"Durk da durk durk durk!?"
Lina Zalizati:
"Hey! You are one who needs me to do manage stuff! I do not want to hear durks!"
Ripplemagne:
"Durka durka jer Ick glockma, you say?"
Lina Zalizati:
"I hate you!"
Ripplemagne:
"Excellent. Actually, isn't Ryan Corey that chico who be gettin' his ass kicked by mah nigga Cage? Aw ye. A'ight, a'ight. I ain't got nothin' bad to say 'bout the guy. He's a little boring, what wit' the whole 'Ayo, I'mma former world champion, a former this, a former that', but in different circumstances, de Magne and dis nigga could probably shoot a game o' pool together, y'know?"
Behind him, the two side by side clips of the two men in their matches merge into a very heavily edited mock battle between the two. Transparent in the sky, Ryan Corey and Ripplemagne clash as the scene of the stairway to Heaven downward spirals and takes a bungee jump down through the Heavens to the depths of Hell below.
Smoldering ash and brimstone ignites around them as the two men lock in an immortal showdown.
Ripplemagne:
"Ayo, check it. De Magne is oh-so pleasantly aware of the delectable factoid that some'a y'all nignogs is havin' trouble dishin' up some material to rip on the Ripplemagne with. The novelty of 'Nipplemagnet' and the fact that I tell jokes can only take ya so far, ya feel me? So, the Ripplemagne was sitting at home one day, hoping that someone would present some pleasant mockery of the Ripplemagne that the Patriarch of Pretty could actually call novel and amusing.
Naturally, I was drove to drink and thought, 'Do I have to do everything for you kids?' The answer was a riveting aye. So, the King of Hearts has decided to put you all on notice. Ja ready?
Ayo, I wear cherry chapstick.
I shave around, up and down my legs and all around my dick.
I fluff my hair more times a day than Gabriella at a male teibol club.
My eyebrows are thinner than ya pencil dick, bub.
Like Johnny Bravo, I lack that muy machismo to call myself pretty.
All that metro gives me the giddy to bust a nut in ya bitty.
I did get pinned by Eden Black.
Even, in the process, copped a feel of her rack.
I did lose to Dan Hayter fair and square.
Got back up; let the whole world see I got a pair.
Yeah, I was raised by a single mother.
She did a better damn job than any other.
My pops did walk out; dabbled with niggas more fucked up than Charles Manson.
So, what I look like Chris Hansen?
Maybe a little o' La Roux.
Ya girl still dig the doo.
Who knows?
That cueball mother fucker probably pulls pork, so just listen to this polyphonic prose.
Point is, I'm low-income.
I was that little nigga in the back of class that you stayed away from.
My garb was Shady and M.O. was the fist.
Nowadays, you'll be hard pressed to find me pissed.
ADD, ADHD, Depression.
All this regression.
Teens was a clusterfuck of names and faces.
An identity in different places.
Fundamentalism and abstinence.
Surely wasn't on the fence.
The last year's been a nightmare with my head held high.
You'd break down and cry.
Up in the Heavens above are babies Olivia and Alessandra.
The padded room is pepped for that pasha.
They're dying; they're all fucking dying.
If I told you it didn't matter, I'd be lying.
Scratch the surface.
Come and resurface.
Throw down and I'mma wee ectomorph.
In the ring, I look like a red nosed dwarf.
Ya biceps are probably bigger than my torso.
Maybe if I ate my broccoli, I'd have seen the day to grow.
Check it, I ain't in orbit.
See me do a 630 Senton?
See me with a caste on.
My shit's fragile, mane.
The littlest offset sends blood from my vein.
I got the attention span of a lima bean.
The focus of a collard green.
I'll give you all the ammo you need and you still can't figure out how to pull the trigger.
You're about as useful as a bouncing Tigger.
Anything you can say has made me the person I am today, you see.
So, go ahead and tell these people something they don't know about me."
The nod to 8 Mile was complete as Ripplemagne grinned and stepped from the scene abruptly.
* * *
Fin.
* * *
