The Cliffs of Insanity

Kicking Giant Arse from Tinhuviel on Vimeo.

chris_walsh

1. 
   
2. therealljidol: I was a competitor in the first season of LJ Idol when there were like 3 people fighting like emaciated canines over the chicken bone that was the title of LJ Idol Winner. Being the vicious dog that I am, I won the competition. Since then, LJ Idol has become somewhat of a phenomenon not only on Live Journal, but also on the Internet, being one of those sublime occurrences that allows people to stretch out their writer's muscles while making new friends. It's not just a competition for writers; it's a gathering place for creative people who who want to be a part of something that helps define the word groovy. Even though I know there's no way I could ever win, not with all the talented individuals vying for the title now, I'd still love to be a part of the competition, just for the heck of it. Actually, I do participate on the peripheries of the competition. If there's a prompt I feel compelled to write on, then I will. I get to enjoy the writerly aspects of the competition without stressing over the competitive aspects. Fae Publishing is in the process of producing a book showcasing the best of what LJ Idol has had to offer over the years. I'm happy to say I'm a part of this undertaking. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I'd be able to say "Yo! I'm a published writer!" because of something clauderainsrm, of all people, would cook up out of that demented can of potted meat he calls a brain. I guess that means I have to be all grateful to him, for at least the next ten minutes. So, Gary? Thaaaaanks...
3. 
   
4. Spork: Ah the Mighty Spork! I like to say the word 'spork' almost as much as I do 'weasel.' And the mere thought of a weasel with a spork sends my imagination into never-before-explored regions of full-on hilarity. It's like something Eliza Doolittle would be forced to repeat constantly before going on that cotillion date with Professor Higgins: "A snorkel of weasels must spackle with the spork when it rains in Spain all the zippity-doo-dah-day!"
   
   If I ever opened a restaurant, I would name it the Golden Spork and I'd have a giant spork out front like the monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey. It would greatly amuse me to see patrons of my establishment react to my giant spork in much the same way the apes did the monolith in the Kubrick film.
   
   Then, of course, there's the entire re-writing of the Spoon scene in The Matrix to better fit the whole Spork Motif. Yes, there's a Spork Motif. At least, there is now. Here on the Cliffs, we're all about sporks and weasels. Don't ever forget it.
5. 
   
6. Buttah: I have an aunt on the Mother Unit's side of the family who is the epitome of Mike Myers' Coffee Talk lady. She even gets verklempt. That's really apropos of nothing except for the fact that the Coffee Talk lady declares things she admires to the utmost to be like buttah. I tend to do the same. If I mention that something is like buttah, I really like it. If I state that something "is like a big stick o'buttah," that pretty much means it's so awesome, it will clog your arteries with nothing but pure win. For instance, the Gorillaz are like buttah, but Shriekback is like a big stick o'buttah. Law & Order is like buttah, but Law & Order: SVU is like a big stick o'buttah. Han Solo is like buttah, but Darth Maul is like a big sexy stick o'buttah! Dig?
7. 
   
8. Fanfic: That thing I'm not writing at the moment and it may be too late to even finish it now. We'll see. I actually just learnt that people write fanfiction about actual living, breathing people. Like this one chick on Twitter writes Green Day fanfiction. I don't think I could ever do such a thing. My fanfiction has to be about fictional characters only, thankyouverymuch. And, believe it or not, I've not written that much fanfic. My first sojourn in that realm of fandom was writing Darth Maul fanfic back in 1999 and 2000 for the Darth Maul Estrogen Brigade. My second fanfic outing has been Joker fanfiction, mainly the Date Series, written for Rancid Rainbow. The majority of my fanfic has been erotic, but that's not to say all of it is erotic. A couple of my Maul fics were comedies and some of my J-fic has ranged from Jungian/occultish to dreadfully misanthropic. I even collaborated on a fiction, which I usually never do. It resulted in the first of a two part 'interview' written by dandyxrandy and myself. Writing fanfiction helped break a horrible block with which I'd been struggling back in 1999, so I figure I will always return to the medium as inspiration strikes because it's it's too fun not to dabble with and it really helps work on the writer bone.
9. 
   
10. Izzard: One of my greatest heroes and quite possibly the most quotable human being on the planet. When green_goblin7t introduced me to Eddie Izzard, I was instantly in awe and in love. The man is a brain in a frock. Simple as that. Really, words just fail me when it comes to Eddie Izzard. He's....my hero!
11. 
    

It was hot. Interminably so. The Joker hated heat and Gotham was hot, so he hated Gotham too. He peered out of the abandoned building in which he was currently holed up, cursing the loss of the posh mill house to which he’d grown accustomed. Hell, Arkham was more comfortable than this dump. He was barefaced, wearing nothing but boxer shorts. He’d used a popsicle stick and a paper plate to make a fan with some scotch tape he’d found. Sitting by the broken window, hoping for a breeze, the Joker fanned himself with his makeshift fan and cursed his bad luck.

There’d been no sign of the Batman, even after all the Joker’s personal gifts and messages, but home base was raided by a pack of blue shirts led by Commissioner Gordon himself in the middle of the night. They barely made it out, but not without some losses, the worst of which was Sidney and the Joker’s new Gordon Ramsay. He was without good food and a trusted good, thanks to Gotham’s Finest. And now there was this godawful heatwave. He scowled, the corners of his mouth turned downward, despite the scars constantly pulling upward in an incessant grin. Just once, the Joker would like to really frown and it not look like a parody. His scowl deepened. Turning away from the window, he walked over to his computer, which was set up next to Leopold’s habitat. Leopold had been in a ball for the past 24 hours, as freaked out by the hustled move as everyone else had been. He looked over at his hedgehog and said, “Mammalian pill bug, that’s what you arrrre Leopold.”

Leopold ignored him in his self-protection mode. The Joker shrugged his shoulders and fanned his face. Things looked bleak, what with losing most of the cash and his closest henchman. He tried to look on the bright side, though: at least he didn’t have to kill Sidney himself now! The Joker sighed and juggled his iPod carefully into the air in front of him in between bouts of fanning. What was this any way, the fucking Deep South? Fucking miserable weather. It was enough to make him go on a killing spree.

They say that heat causes acts of violence to rise. And god makes heat, so thank god!

Ever since the untimely death of Sophia Carteres and the raid on the Joker’s lair, things had been hanging on a precipice in Gotham. Just one little push and everything would fall into the Abyss that is pure madness, or pure enlightenment, depending on one’s point of view. The Joker liked to consider himself enlightened, like a mad wandering shaman who’d just soon rip your head off as give you the secret to Life, the Universe, and Everything. He was Zaphod and Deep Thought all rolled into one. And, right now, he was a fucking sweltering Zaphod. Maybe he should ditch this dig, move to the Deep South, and kill everybody. It’d could be chalked up to euthanasia. He may even be proclaimed a hero.

The Joker blew forcefully through his lips. He needed some fun. Once the sun began to go down, he’d don his outfit and apply his war paint. He’d then go out on a date. But what sort of girl was he in the mood for? He’d had nurses, singers, crazy punk rock girls, even a nun. Who else out there could he woo to his chamber? The Joker thought, listening to his music the entire time. Nobody that really seemed extremely palatable came to mind. Again, the Joker blew through his mouth, stretching the scars on his face. When he did this, their presence was made even more apparent to him. They no longer hurt him, but he was well aware that they were there….forever. A long-tended rage surged freshly through the Joker’s solar plexus and he was determined to reclaim what was his and staple the make-shift fan he was forced to use to the forehead of whomever was responsible for losing him his mill house.

A knock at the door.

“Come in…” the Joker mumbled.

It was a henchmen he’d never seen before. “Mister J, any plans for tonight?”

“Yes, I’m going into town tonight. What’s your name?”

“Kelly.”

“Kelly?” The Joker raised his dark blonde eyebrows at the criminal in his service. “-That’s…That’s a girl’s a name.”

“That’s my last name, sir. My first is Ned.”

The Joker looked at him for a minute. “You’re Ned Kelly.”

“Yessir.”

“Helluva name, Ned-d. Do we have a car yet?”

“Just stolen. An Oldsmobile.”