Neil Gaiman is a guest on the next episode of Wits. John Moe issued a challenge to Wits listeners to pen their best bad Neil Gaiman imitation that could be read onstage, by Neil, in 30 seconds or less. The people have responded, as my inbox is groaning under the weight of the submissions. A sampling of the onslaught:
“The sky fell into my lap, and I mistook it for a bezoar. Swallowing it only introduced me to a host of problems relating to extended metaphors involving borrowed mythologies and realms hiding behind ordinary cabinet doors and such. Also it did nothing for my migraine. I will not go on walks with Jeff the God of Biscuits anymore.”
Jeff the God of Biscuits!
“There are old places in the world. Old places and new places.
Some old places are older than others, and not quite as old as some of the new places, where old things lurk among the new like faded sentinels of the bygone, like residents of a nursing home looking for their slippers.
Some new places are old, but not as old as old places that are newer than older new places.
And some places are the oldest of the old, older still than time of man, the time of the Earth, older than time, than law, than laws of time, than imagination. These places smell funny.
Some places are just old.
This is such a place.
So do you want to buy the house or not?”
For much too long, the realms of fantasy and science fiction have been bereft of realtors. I think John might be on to something here.
The world’s tiniest poker game took place on the head of a pin. All the usual suspects were invited: Marv the unicorn, Cornelius the animate skeleton, Wasp the pig, and Henrietta the imp. I stumbled upon the game when I was travelling to my grandmother’s house in Mug-Wumpton—jabbed my foot right into the pin and caused Wasp the pig to spill the extra aces he kept tucked in his waistcoat. It probably wouldn’t have happened if the sky over Mug-Wumpton wasn’t a sickly purple that day. But the sky rats were out and the she-boars were lactating, so the sky changed and the pin was stepped on and poor Wasp the pig was never invited to another poker game again.
Really, I just want to hear Neil Gaiman say “Henrietta the imp.”
Once there was a tiny bone harmonium that lived inside a plowman’s ear. It was in the shape of a young girl with vestigial wings, and fed on the plowman’s sorrow, playing him to sleep at night. They lived like this in a pleasant symbiosis until a wandering musician charmed her from the plowman’s ear, leaving his heart broken in eleven pieces. The musician, lamenting that his rash actions caused so much sorrow, swallowed the harmonium and became Jasob Webley. Or maybe … he became YOU.
Also “plowman’s ear.”
The sword was big. The guy hit the other guy with the sword. It was awesome. The end.
I get the feeling that HBO has already brought the rights to this one, and Noah is lighting cigars with $100 bills. Congrats, Noah. Would it hurt you to return our calls?
There’s still time to submit your shot at the Bad Gaiman Challenge. Remember, 30 seconds or less read out loud. That’s the only rule. Here is a picture of Neil, judging your badness: