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Anon Y. Mous -> Some Stuff To Read (y'know, if you're bored) (8/22/2008 19:02:44)

A Day in the Excruciatingly Boring Life of Walter Mitty

Chapter 1


…Walter Mitty hummed “The Star-Spangled Banner” as he drove past the “Welcome to Greater Walter Mitty” sign and entered (you guessed it!) Greater Walter Mitty. The car’s windows were completely open and the wind coming into the car from them tossed around the last fragments of Walter’s hair. Soon Walter came upon an intersection, where a crossing guard stopped him with just an open palm.

“How are you today, Mr. Mitty?” asked the crossing guard jovially, as children crossed the street behind him.

“Pretty good, Walter,” answered Walter Mitty, rather insincerely.

Once the kids were on the other side of the street, Walter Mitty the crossing guard gave Walter Mitty the driver the signal for Go Already!, and so Walter Mitty went. He passed Walter’s Café and Mitty’s Barber Shop and MitDonalds until he came upon his destination, Walt-Mart (no affiliation to Wal-Mart). After parking his car in the parking lot, Walter walked toward Walt-Mart in the bright, perfect summer day. He waved to Walter and Mr. Mitty, who were standing outside Walt-Mart talking, and then entered the supermarket, the metallic hiss of the automatic doors shutting fading behind him.

It seemed as if everything Walter needed from the store was in the aisles right next to the door. Bread, check. Milk, check. Butter, check. Ground beef, check. Wait, wait. How much butter? I need to go on a diet, Walter thought as he browsed throughout the store.

After filling his cart with the very necessities of life (Twinkies), he got into to amazingly short line for the express lane checkout. Very quickly Walter was putting his “10 items or less” onto the checkout belt.

“Life good, Mr. Mitty?” asked Walter Mitty the supermarket clerk.

“Good enough, Walter,” replied Walter Mitty the shopper pleasantly.

“How’s you’re wife?”

“Horrid. Yours?”

“The same. Well, your total is $26.77.”

“Here you go. $26.77, in exact change. And before you ask, I want a plastic bag. Between killing a tree with a paper bag or killing a fish with a plastic bag, I choose the fish. Never really liked eating them anyway,” said Walter Mitty the shopper eloquently as Walter Mitty the supermarket clerk filled a plastic bag with the items being bought. Once the bag was full, Walter the shopper took it, waved good-bye, and walked out of the store.

He strolled slowly back to his car, savoring the fresh summer air. A loud beep sounded as Walter unlocked his car door and got into it. He slid the car key into the ignition and turned it, the car turned on smoothly, and he got out of the parking lot and onto the highway.
Walter loved the town of Greater Walter Mitty. Life was perfect here. Nobody ever disagreed with him. In fact, it seemed as if everyone was exactly like him. They all looked the same, talked the same, and even had the same name. Huh, what a strange coincidence, thought Walter. He mulled over why this was for a while, but then gave it up so he could fully enjoy the sheer pleasure of speeding up on the highway.

“You’re driving too fast!” a voice cried shrilly.

Walter was so startled that he let go of the steering wheel for a few seconds while in a state of complete shock. Once he came back to his senses, he scrambled to regain control of the wheel. Who is that? thought Walter, once the wheel was under control. No one in Greater Walter Mitty had ever said he had done something wrong.

“You’re driving too fast!” the mystery voice shrieked once more. “Slow...



Anon Y. Mous -> RE: Musings From a Mind Unclear (8/22/2008 19:04:09)

Chapter 2


…down, Walter!” yelped Mrs. Mitty. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Wha?” said Walter Mitty incoherently, shaken out of his reverie. He quickly slowed down the old, beaten-up station wagon so as to not provoke more ear-shattering yelling.

“Are you okay, Walter?” Mrs. Mitty asked in that high, screechy, annoying voice of hers. She put (slapped) her hand onto Walter’s forehead. “You don’t feel hot. Maybe it was that meatloaf you made last night. I told you not to eat it. It wasn’t even that good.”

Walter hated these trips into the city. Mostly because he was confined in a small space for an hour with his wife. It was enough to make anyone claustrophobic.

Mrs. Mitty turned to the rearview mirror and began to try to reach that state of perfection with her long, gray hair that she never quite accomplished, but spent hours in front of mirrors trying for anyway. “You know, sometimes I wonder why I married you. But of course, back then you were almost handsome. You had a full head of hair,” she said as she snuck a glance at his mostly bald head, with only a few wisps of hair left, “You were, well, not fat, at least,” she said as she fired a quick peek at his stomach, which nearing the point when it could be called overweight, “And you were young,” she said while she scrutinized him. “Now you’re in your mid-forties, and look older.”

You’re not a fresh spring daisy yourself, thought Walter. Though he longed to say it out loud, he was too timid.

Walter’s kindergarten teacher had been an almost exact replica of Mrs. Mitty. The teacher had been mean, never letting Walter play with the round blocks. The teacher had not been very old, being in her mid-forties, but she had looked old. The only difference between the kindergarten teacher and Mrs. Mitty was that the teacher had treated Walter with respect.

The rest of the car ride passed uneventfully. Mrs. Mitty insulted Walter some more, and Walter drove on in detached silence, wondering why he had ever married this woman. All of this was the norm for the couple’s car rides.

Finally, they arrived at the city. After that it was only a few minutes until they got to Mrs. Mitty’s favorite beauty parlor. Thank you! thought Walter as he emerged from the station wagon, unscathed. Mrs. Mitty followed soon after, once she had finished straightening out the folds in her old, flowery, grandmother style dress. The two walked briskly toward the beauty parlor, for it was a cold autumn day. Walter didn’t understand why it was called a beauty parlor. Mrs. Mitty had never looked beautiful walking out of it. Then again, she had never looked beautiful going into to it either.

“All right now Walter, make sure to shop at Grumman’s for everything. I’m sure that they have the best prices. Follow the shopping list I wrote exactly. And get yourself a hat. It’s not like it’ll be covering anything that people want to see,” listed Mrs. Mitty.

“Okay,” mumbled Walter, and then Mrs. Mitty disappeared into the beauty parlor. Suddenly a short, 140 pound weight was lifted off of Walter’s shoulders. He got back into his car and soon was on his way to Grumman’s, marveling at the peace within the automobile. After a few minutes of driving Walter pulled into Grumman’s parking lot. He pulled the key out of the ignition, hopped out of the car, and ambled his way over to the supermarket. If you had been watching him closely, you would have noticed that he was more relaxed, and that he wasn’t in constant fear of getting insulted.

Walter strode into Grumman’s and was immediately assaulted with a barrage of noise. People talking, employees talking, people yelling, employees yelling. Normal supermarket sounds. Walter took a quick look at Mrs. Mitty’s shopping list and saw that he would have to look for “Dave’s Premium Beef Jerky” first, so he set off into that great wilderness that is the local supermarket. He wandered far and wide for the items on the list. While he was in the book section of Grumman’s looking for Losing Weight for Dummies, he saw a King Arthur story retelling by an author he admired. Walter had always wanted to be an author. He skimmed through the back cover of the book. “An epic battle…



Anon Y. Mous -> RE: Musings From a Mind Unclear (8/22/2008 19:06:16)

Chapter 3


…Awaited the Golden Knight, named after the beautiful hue of his rock hard armor. A gust of wind from the east blew across the field that continued on as far as the eye could see. The gust made the blades of grass in the field begin a hypnotic dance, waving and shaking, twirling and pirouetting, until it passed into the forest on the right of the field. The gust made an ominous rustling sound as it shook the leaves of the trees in the forest, bright green in the middle of summer. This field was where he and the legions of knights King Arthur had lent him waited. The dazzling summer sun blazed onto the knights and made them sweat, under all that armor. Then, after what seemed like ages to some of the more nervous knights, shadows began to appear on the horizon. As the shadows drew closer to the Golden Knight’s army, they were shown to be the knights of the Duke of Cornwell, one of Arthur’s enemies.

The Golden Knight saw the enemy’s troops approaching and grinned under his shining helm. Behind him, Arthur’s army stared fearfully at the Knight and shivered. Nobody knew who the Knight was. All they knew was that he was a fearsome fighter and that he was drawn to battle. He was like a bloodthirsty compass, always knowing were the next big clash would be. It was rumored that King Arthur and the Golden Knight were old friends. That certainly would have explained why Arthur had lent the Knight practically his whole army and had let the Knight fight this monumental battle in his place, with only a promise from the Knight to defeat the enemy. Whatever the truth about the Golden Knight was, it was true that King Arthur’s knights were glad that he was fighting for them.

The Duke of Cornwell’s army drew closer yet. The tension built within the hearts of every man in both armies. Then, out of nowhere, a tremendous crack was heard, and the front line of the Duke’s troops vanished into the ground! The Golden Knight, on cue, yelled, “Charge!” and his army charged. The Duke’s knights were momentarily inattentive to the looming battle, peering into the pit that had been cleverly concealed and looking at their comrades, impaled on a line of stakes. But their heads quickly snapped up at the sound of horses’ hooves. The Duke’s knights yelled their own war cries and urged their horses over the pit and toward the tide of oncoming knights. The two waves of warriors met with a great clang of steel on steel.

The Golden Knight was everywhere at once. He slashed, hacked, and battered the enemy. His horse was of the finest breed, and it followed the Knight’s commands almost telepathically. The Knight was pushing the opposing forces back almost by himself.

All of a sudden, the Golden Knight dropped his sword. The Duke’s knights saw their chance and rushed the Knight, hoping to capture him. The Duke had ordered his troops to grab any opportunity they had to “Catch him!”, to quote the Duke.

Suddenly, the narrator of this story began to have a physical presence within the writing of the story. Don’t be alarmed, reader. The narrator is only adding himself into the story so he can write a filler paragraph to make the cliffhanger come on the next page. If the cliffhanger came in the middle of this page, you would be able to see exactly what happens next right away, because what happens next would be on this page. That wouldn’t be good! So the narrator is just writing a filler paragraph to fill this page. You could just stop reading this paragraph and go to the next one, because this paragraph will tell you nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero. Uno minus uno.

“Shut thy mouth, narrator!” shouted the Golden Knight, exasperated by the filler paragraph. While he was distracted berating the narrator, the Duke’s knights captured him.

The narrator muttered some curses unsuitable for this story. “That wasn’t supposed to happen! I guess I gotta go into the story now and save the Knight from the Duke’s forces. Illustrator, hold down the fort.”

“I can’t narrate for you!” exclaimed the illustrator fearfully. “I’m a high school drop-out! I can’t spell at all! I haven’t even illustrated anything in this story yet!”

“Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’ll tell the reader right now that some words are about to be misspelled, okay?” said the narrator.

“Okay,” answered the illustrator. It seemed as if he was calming down.

“Reader, starting after this paragraph some words are about to be misspelled, since the illustrator is going to take over for me. Don’t panic,” said the narrator, and after a small wave to the illustrator (who looked green) he threw himself into the story.

Imediatly the narrator rushed headlong into the frey, armed with onlee a small powch of letters. He began to thro (the words) flying death into the ranks of the Duke’s knites, but flying death is spelt with a bunch of letters, and as you already no, the narrator had onlee a small powch of letters. So he began to just thro death.

After fiting and defeting hundreds of knites, the narrator reached the Golden Knight, who was tied up and gagged. The Duke’s general was about to reamove the Knight’s helm, but a well amed death from the narrator chainged his plans. The narrator rushed up to the Knight and untied the ropes that had him titely bownd and the rag that was impairing his speach.

Onse the Knight was free, he asked, “Pray tell, who art thou and what were those wondrous weapons that you used to fell mine enemies?”

The narrator ansered, “The weapons I used were words, which probably has some real-life symbolism that I’m too lazy to figure out. And my name (drum roll, please) is Walter Mitty.”

The Knight had one other kwestion. “And, pray tell, did you get the you-know-what?”

Walter was confused. “Come again?”

“I said, did you get the…



Anon Y. Mous -> RE: Musings From a Mind Unclear (8/22/2008 19:07:57)

Chapter 4


…you-know-what? Oh, I can’t remember its name,” said Mrs. Mitty as she tried to jog her memory. Walter was jolted out of his trance.
“Wait, wait, I’ll remember.” She started itching her head like an old monkey. Walter fought down the urge to laugh. Suddenly Mrs. Mitty jumped up with a look of enlightenment on her face. You could almost see the light bulb turning on above her head. “Now I remember! Did you get the toilet paper?”

The couple had just met up again in the Kessan Hotel, a local four star hotel. Walter had finished shopping and Mrs. Mitty had finished her manicure, pedicure, and had gotten her hair cut. “It’s perfect!” Mrs. Mitty had exclaimed. Walter, always the good husband, had dutifully agreed.

Every once in a while when they came to the city Mrs. Mitty decided to have a “bonding experience” with Walter. This involved Walter carrying Mrs. Mitty’s shopping bags as she wandered aimlessly around the local mall for a few hours. Then they would have a ridiculously expensive dinner at some fancy restaurant, and for many days afterward Mrs. Mitty would nag Walter for supposedly “talking her into wasting money at a mediocre fancy restaurant”. Finally, they would go back to the Kessan and their lake view room. Walter would collapse onto the bed, while Mrs. Mitty annoyed him to sleep.

Apparently today Mrs. Mitty had decided to have a “bonding experience”. She had called his cell phone while he had been cruising around the city, waiting for her to finish in the beauty parlor. “Where were you? You never turned up at the parlor to pick me up, so I caught a cab to the Kessan,” she had said, rather angrily.

Walter was about to protest and say, You said you were going to call me when you were done! But he chickened out and said lamely, “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve gotten used to you screwing up,” said Mrs. Mitty, who always knew what to say to make you feel much, much better. “Come over to the Kessan so we can get our lake view room. We need to have a bonding experience.” Walter shivered.

Even though he was afraid, Walter followed her orders and drove over to the Kessan. That’s how it came to be that Walter had to admit that yes, he did forget the toilet paper, and no, next time he would not forget.

The two went up to the front desk and, after Mrs. Mitty shouting very loudly, got a $20 discount on their hotel room. Walter, as always, carried the bags of things he had already bought from Grumman’s into the elevator, then back out of the elevator on the fifth floor. He unlocked the door while carrying all the stuff, then waited as Mrs. Mitty leisurely walked into the room. As usual, she commented on how slow he was walking. Once Walter was in the room, he quickly ditched the shopping bags onto the bed and headed for the balcony that was connected to their room. The view is beautiful, thought Walter as he leaned precariously over the balcony’s rail and peered into the depths of the lake in front of the balcony. A breeze tousled Walter…



Anon Y. Mous -> RE: Musings From a Mind Unclear (8/22/2008 19:09:44)

Chapter 5


…the “Scourge of the Seas” Mitty’s full head of hair. He looked west and sure enough, there came a huge storm, right on the horizon and approaching fast. In a matter of seconds his ship was engulfed in the enormous storm. Roiling black clouds unleashed torrents of rain upon the turbulent seas. Deafening crashes of thunder were followed by brilliant flashes of lightning that lit the whole tableau, showing all of its wild glory.

“Go on, Scourge Mitty,” said Walter’s old first mate, now new captain, Blossheart. He poked Walter with his sword. “Walk the plank. You ain’t captain no more.”

It was true, if you didn’t count the double negative as a positive. He was no longer captain. Not long ago Walter had been the most famous pirate on the seven seas. Nobody knew whether he had killed more men or sunken more ships, because nobody could count that high. Walter had been well liked, too. He was funny, and charming, and always said whatever he was thinking.

But inevitably, his crew had gotten jealous. Last night, they had staged a mutiny. They had planned to sneak up on Walter while he was sleeping. Luckily, Walter was a light sleeper, so he woke up right when the door creaked open. Walter immediately jumped out of bed, grabbed his sword (which was resting against the bed), and took the fight to the mutineers. He fought hard, defeating six men, but in the end numbers triumphed over him. Walter was bound and gagged. The mutineers knew there was a storm coming, so they stashed Walter inside a storage closet and waited. Now, right in the middle of the aforementioned storm, Walter was being forced to walk the plank.

“Now, now, my crew, my friends! What have I ever done to you?” asked Walter, making one last attempt at saving his hide.

“Nothing,” the crew answered simultaneously.

“Then should I be walking the plank?” asked Walter, hoping that at least one pirate in his former crew had a conscience.

The crew thought for a moment, and then replied, in unison, “Yes!”

“Okay, okay, I’ll go then.”

Without a moment of hesitation, Walter Mitty dove into the deep blue yonder. In the eye of the storm, Walter Mitty dove into uncertainty and excitement.



Anon Y. Mous -> RE: Musings From a Mind Unclear (8/22/2008 19:14:04)

Almost

Prologue



Highway 52 passes through many miniscule towns. One of these aforementioned towns is Coates, in Minnesota. Although home to only two hundred, Coates once had a most curious reputation. It had the cleanest street signs in all the world.

The locals had varying theories on why this was. Some said the street signs had some kind of magical energy field surrounding them, preventing dirt from ever touching them. Some said that the thunderstorms had minds of their own. But the most commonly agreed upon theory was even more fantastic than the others in its own right.

The supposed explanation for it all was that late at night, while the rest of the world was asleep or watching late-night comedians, a young boy would have a most mysterious urge. He would sneak out of his house into the night, led by a sixth sense. Upon reaching his destinations, with Windex, washcloth, and step stool in hand, he would set to work.

Most nocturnal drivers who witnessed this anomaly put it off as their eyes playing tricks on them. After all, what sort of parents would let a kid out at this hour? And why would the kid keep scrubbing if the sign if it was already spotless? The travelers would rub their eyes and speed on by.

Finally, after the boy had cleaned every sign countless times, he would stagger home wearily, squinting in the dawn's early light. With empty spray bottle, dirt-caked rag, and step stool in hand, he would knock on his house's door. The door would open, a hand would shoot out of the house, and he would be pulled in.

Of course, there were countless holes in the story, like the fact that there had never been tired children in the local school. Also, descriptions of the "WonderWasher", as he came to be called, varied greatly. Of course, true believers of the legend argued that the "WonderWasher" had possibly not attended school, and that it was hard to describe anyone seen late at night.

After hearing all of this, you may be surprised to learn that the story is true. And nowadays he is a bright young man, since he was home schooled by some of the best. Of course, he no longer lives in Coates. Now he lives in Rochester, Minnesota. Why, you ask? So he can receive treatment for his severe OCD from the renowned Mayo Clinic.

He is actually me. I've been writing about myself, I mean. Forgive me for ending my life story here. I've got to get to sleep.



Anon Y. Mous -> RE: Musings From a Mind Unclear (9/12/2008 19:15:08)

Chapter 1


BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. My alarm clock screeches, not caring that it's early in the morning and that I was up late last night cleaning. I grumble and smack the alarm blindly, inadvertently hitting the "Alarm off" switch. Then I grab a "Lysol Disinfecting Wipe" out of one of two containers on the nightstand next to my bed, thoroughly clean the alarm, and throw the now germ-infested wipe into the garbage can a couple of feet across the room, making the shot in one try. But that's what happens with years of practice.

I walk to the bathroom, trying to walk near the trash can. My psychotherapist suggested that I move the trash can so that it would be right next to my bed, but that was too disgusting of an idea. Right now I'm just working up to that.

I shudder, then work up my nerve and enter the bathroom, flicking up the light switch on my way in. I use the toilet, flush, and then the internal battle begins. The main idea my psychotherapist tries to pound into my brain every appointment is using the "exposure and response prevention" method. Basically, I have to expose myself to things I would rather not expose myself to, and then react correctly, in a non-obsessive, rational way. Right now, I should just go wash my hands right away. But that box of "Scrubbing Bubbles" is so close, and it would be so easy to clean the toilet. It would just be a few seconds, a minute tops. And all those germs would be gone.

No, Jack! I've named my OCD-geared thoughts Jack. I just find it easier to deal with another "person".

Come on. Can't you feel all those germs? Creeping closer, closer, closer...

I look at the toilet again, and suddenly it's as if my eyes have gained a supernatural power, and I can see germs. And I'm disgusted, but I know it's just my imagination, but they're everywhere, but it's just my imagination, but they're coming, but it's just my imagination, but they're in me...

I almost scream, I almost cry, I yank the cupboard doors under the sink open, I grab a new box of "Scrubbing Bubbles" out of the cupboard, I tear the box and the container inside open, I pour the whole thing in the toilet, and I flush the toilet. And as the water is sucked away, so is my fear. And as I become sane again, I realize that I just gave into Jack again for the hundredth, thousandth, millionth time.

I cry.

I wash my hands, I wash them again, I wash my face, I brush my teeth, I wash my hands, I wipe the bathroom counter, I wash my hands, I turn off the lights, and I walk out of the bathroom.

Wait, did I turn off the bathroom light?

Of course I did, Jack! I did it just a second ago! But then I think about it, and I begin to have doubts. I backtrack and peek into the bathroom door to make sure I did turn off the lights. Whaddya know, I did.

I walk away again, but Jack interrupts my escape and says the same thing he said a second ago. And I know I shouldn't, but more doubts pop into my mind. I return to the bathroom, see that the light is off, and take a step away. Then I check again, just to make sure. I step away, but step back. And even though I know the light is off, I can't help reassuring myself. Finally, a couple hundred steps later, I finally break away.

I speed through my apartment, knowing that unless I hurry, I'll be late for my job. But on the way, I can't help straightening out things, turning them a little bit, moving some things, so everything looks perfect.

After twenty minutes of impromptu house cleaning, I finally head out the door.

Pretty good morning, I think cheerily to myself. I've made progress.




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