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Chronicle of the NonPop Revolution


 
The Essay
Show #36
A Bag o' Haggis
David Gunn
Hundreds of years ago, when the area we now know as Vermont was still a smouldering pastiche of hot-to-the-touch rocks, trees were academically porous, and kelp had not yet been invited to sit at the table of the magnetically primitive countryside, music was a new a concept, as foreign to the charred community as were eels to the School of Beleagured Haberdashery. Yet even in those prehistorically maroon times, musical uplinks and downloading were occurring at a frenetic pace in an effort to get life as we know it off to a tuneful beginning. Tonality and harmony were critical pieces to the early homonids' puzzle of survival, and those bipeds who could hum at length were usually given the status of tribal leaders, often with a big house thrown in if they could be occasionally persuaded to stop. Thumb-and-gander wars were sometimes fought over ...

Betina swooned as the district attorney held the red-stained tablecloth up for the jury to see. "I couldn't help it," she sobbed. "He came at me with a catalogue the size of a Buick and began to quote girths and quantities, brindle changes and extant tariffs. I told him I couldn't afford the service, but he just laughed, just laughed" -- and here Betina laughed, too ... a thin, hollow snigger that, under different circumstances might give humor a bad name. "So I hit him, I hit him with my lapel-o-meter, hit him so hard he fell into the sea -- which wasn't easy, as we were a hundred miles inland -- and that's where, to my horror, he became entangled in a web of kelp and became brunch for a band of hungry rogue kippers. That's what really happened! And I have no ..." Suddenly, she spied a familiar face in the gallery and shrieked. A man covered from head to toe with hats stood up and bolted for the exit. An expert witness attempted to prevent his escape, but he bowled him over. The courtroom erupted in a fiery, volcanic explosion, and lava began to flow from where the bailiff's chair used to be. Betina leaned over to the judge and ...

I'm sorry. I seem to be reading from the wrong page. This has been an excerpt from an out-of-print and as-yet unpublished story entitled "A Bag o' Haggis," by an occasional contributor to this program. The story will be read in its entirety on a future program, writes the author, speaking anonymously, unless members of the radiophonic audience telephone the studio today in unprecedented numbers. The numbers zero, one, two, three, four and five have already been used and are thus precedented. Only numbers six and above are acceptable. As a good faith gesture, the sixth caller will win a lovely prize, compliments of the author. If you don't know the number, guess.

And speaking of the future, the future is now for Episode 36 of Kalvos & Damian's New Mosaic Sesquihour, this portion of which is being scientifically extruded for use on a future show that will examine ontological ramifications on listening audients, especially during the part that features the Best of the Sesquihour, Mark 7, in which episodes 31 through 35 are auditorily pulverized into 6 minutes of the easiest imaginable listenable snippets.

I don't make the stuff up, I only work here, as does this other guy, guy by the name of ....