Plausible Deniability

Generally speaking, I am more than happy to take responsibility for poor writing, plot holes, weak characterization, and general pompousness in my written works. Everyone writes duds every once in awhile.

But I cannot take the credit for this one.

On Saturday, 26 November 2005, Modified Arts in Phoenix, Arizona celebrated the two year anniversary of Thru The Wires with a catered gala event.

Thru The Wires features both the established and up-and-coming starts in the Intelligent Dance Music (IDM) world; in short, it is a monthly showcase of electronic music. Thru the Wires has featured such groups as Terminal 11 and Speak, Memory.

Unfortunately, neither of these groups performed at the two year anniversary gala.

Instead, it featured a barely pubescent teenage boy screaming songs about DeGrassi Junior High over formulaic technohash a half step above the Casio-generated action score in The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. It was bad. I got the church giggles.

In an attempt to entertain myself and the group I was with, I took out a piece of notebook paper and wrote:

"I never would have gone to that party if it hadn't been for those
pants," he confessed.

I passed this note along to my friend, More than meets the I. She added a couple sentences and passed it along. Once the page had made it through our group, we began passing it through the crowd. Each crowd member who got a hold of the story added to it. Ultimately, I had to provide a second page because contributors had begun writing in microscopic script in the margins of Page One. After two hours of crowd surfing, the story began threatening to need a third page. Not being prepared to start a crowd novel, I was forced to tell the couple in possession of the story that they had the responsibility of providing the story with closure.

In any case, here is the story in full. I feel I have made an adequate case for diffusion of responsibility. All spelling, grammatical, and conceptual errors have been retained to maintain realism and journalistic integrity. Box breaks indicate change in authorship, or at least handwriting.

PLEASE ADD TO ME!

-and make sure it gets returned to the guy doing
the visuals - thanks!
[marked on top of first page; added by
More than meets the I]

Gentibus carentibus spe multa dedimus.[written on strip of paper by crowd member and affixed to page
with gum]

"I never would have gone to that party if it hadn't been for those pants," he confessed.

"My girlfriend gave them to me. I never would have chosen assless rubber for myself, personally."

And then I passed out probably from too much pot and drink.

What aforetohere said pot and drink from wherewat I know not from. The pants were chafing, surprisingly hot from heat and such and such etc. they had not been assless but instead a new wave of inverse-assless, where two leather patches caressed and careened the folds of my austere bottom. I didn't even know it, but I lived for quite some time in Florida with said pants. The slow beat community relished my pants, myself, and my long-windedness.

Florida made my bottom less austere so I had to get out. I tried Colorado. The assless pants did follow me, and the cold helped with the chafing, but my bottom was still not as austere as it could be. I moved on.

The chafing was beginning to turn into third degree burns at this point. Blisters? Yes. Infection? Yes. Worth it? Yes.

Yet, something was sorely missing. Something completely unexpected

busted right through the window and plopped in the mashed potatoes on my dresser. I pulled it out and immediately recognized it as the Eye of Hrothgar, I fell into a trance.....

but woke up on the back of a donkey with lemon wings and cupcake knee caps. He was taking me to the land of forgotten knickles. Their he would train me in shoulder pit sling pucking, a move once removed from this world because to dangerous for human beings, but he showed me anyways, so I learned it and went on my mary way.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the world,

Quintus and Pompei raped Caesar and there was much rejoicing. After Pompei's naked grandfather rose from the bathtub,

we gave many things to nations lacking hope.

Like heroin to Somalian children and venereal diseases to Native Americans. On the next full moon,

I ate the mashed potatoes on my dresser and went to japan to have sex with native americans under the blistering sun. The mashed potatoes were still tasty.

Still, it bears repeating that: an incessant need to validate one's childhood experiences, leading to an affection with Christian dogmas or perhaps a bizarre sexual fetish, is still merely a drop in the bucket of the larger human yearning for a balance of compassion with greed.

With this creed in mind I went into hiding, not so much for self gratification as for the pressures of social atmosphere. In my seclusion I discovered many of life's mysteries. One of which was the purpose of ass-inverted-chaps. But that is a mystery whose answer I cannot unfold to the masses. It requires a personal experience.

The inverse assless pants did something to me, something I cannot fully understand at this point in my life but something very completely real. Riddled with maddening recurrant dreams that I have long feared would rob me of my sanity, I sought help from a wise old grampa, called GRAMPA2000 by those fortunate enough to find refuge in his infinite intelligence. After a long voyage to the top of super awesome high rise apartments inhabbited by tons of whacky monstaz, I found the apartment[No. 90575]I had been looking for. Yay the finalie of my awesome sik voyage, it has come to an end. Phew! No more sweating bullets.
THE END ----->

But its not really the end...this story will continue into the infinite complexes of the universe until the end of time.
To Be Continued...